Why are your hands, not hands?

They’re just hands.

I mean I look at them, and they’re just hands.

Same as everyone else’s, two pieces of weirdly shaped flesh, with a couple bones inside.


They’re just hands.

And they’re soft on the palm side, and hard on the knuckles,

A few hidden bruises on the knuckles like a fighter, and like a smoker, the middle finger of the left one a bit crooked,

But they’re just hands.

Scarred sometimes, healing sometimes, but they’re still just hands.

Sometimes warm, sometimes freezing cold, sometimes firm, sometimes shaking, sometimes dry, sometimes soft….

They’re still just hands .

Yet why are your hands….not like hands?

Why do they have such a warmth to them, that it just feels right?

How can hands have a beating rhythm, a rhythm no one can identify, but me…

How are your hands…not hands?

For surely, simply hands can’t make you feel safe like yours do, surely they can’t rid your brain of every humanly thought other then the feel of them on your body….

Hands are meant to hold things vital for survival….then why is it that your hands hold me like I may be vital for survival…

Why are your hands not hands?

Why do your hands convey more to me than your mouth can ever express, why is it that they play such a sweet melody to my skin, salsa dancing to every beat of my heart….

How are your hands, not hands?

For every minuscule part of my skin that they touch, they play the role of a match striking a match box, lighting fire to every pore of my skin, a fire that the worlds best fighter couldn’t extinguish, for the fire they ignite is beyond the control of any earthly being….

Surely hands are not that influential, then why are your hands, not hands?

For every time they journey across my waist to the other side where the grass is less greener, they pull me to a paradise where nothing matters except the mere feeling of being loved, but hands are just meat and bones, why do they make me feel like I can give life a chance where I may be happy….

For hands are just hands, then why are your hands, not hands?

And if hands are just hands, why do I let yours pull me to a sea where I willingly drown into the waves of safety….for the mere idea of being pulled into an abyss is scary in itself, then what is it about your hands that make me feel safe enough to be pulled into whichever direction they guide me to…

For hands are just hands….

Then why are your hands, not hands?




Stream of Consciousness

It’s like everything is messed up,

Glitches and fantasies just mixing with each other,

Like you’d think that rainbows and thunderstorms together would make love, and create absolute beauty,

Something wild yet beautiful….

It’s like a form of extremes.

Extremes and paradoxes mixing together, you’d think it’d be neutralised,

Equal charge on both ends creates neutrality.

But why is it, that this neutrality never exists in my head,

Why is it, that every time I get hurt I want to come to you…

The attraction is still there.

Every time I’m happy I’m attracted to you,

Every time I’m sad I’m attracted to you,

I mean, the whole concept is just the simple impossibility of two extremes to co exist at the same time,

But then why is it that I’m hurting so bad, yet I want to love you,

I’m so happy, but I want to love you…

Love itself is a concept so extreme that it’s impossible to feel another extreme emotion,

You’d THINK.

Because the mind itself is so complex, it never stops working.

And you’d want to organise things into boxes like Sherlock Holmes, like how he created a palace of his thoughts, but you’re stuck in an avalanche of emotions that you simply can’t focus on one…

How simple would our lives be if we just somehow learned to control our own thoughts….something unpleasant impregnating the walls of my imagination….I want to be free of the anxieties haunting my brain,

I’m tired of living in a void where you temporarily pull me out and let me live, but I crash back into it over and over,

Thoughts simply clawing at my brain where I can physically EXPERIENCE the excruciating pain,

Where I lose control….pull at my hair and gasp for air,

Out of fear, that I will relapse into this void, this space, this abyss of darkness and monsters, that tell me I will never EVER be good enough…

It’s not anything that is missing it’s something that is there that I want to get rid of…

Something that needs to let me go…



It’s not you, it’s me.

I’m scared,

Help me.

My hearts beating out of my chest, I mean I need something to hold on to..

A handle of a door, the support of a chair,

I’m falling so deep in a pit of despair,

And when you look at me you get sad,

because you think that you weren’t able to keep me happy,

How do I tell you,

It’s not you, it’s me.

That no matter what you do,

It’s these words that’ll be,

For my mind, it a bit different than what you’re used to,

It’s a mind, with thoughts that are intrusive,

Water of acid rain impregnating the walls I put up, for no one has to look behind,

Yet I look at you, and your eyes are so beautiful, so kind,

How do I tell you,

It’s not you it’s me.

I mean cliche as that sounds its true,

For when I’m not with you,

It’s daggers upon daggers of pure AGONY,

because I know I’m not good enough,

You want me to respect myself, I do, I trust you, I love you but…

It’s not you it’s me.

For there’s no one that has ever been like you,

And when I say I’m not not good enough,

it’s these words that are implanted in my head,

Don’t take me wrong I’m not schizophrenic,

It’s these aliens, these demons, that make me magnify every flaw that I, like any other human being, inevitably possess…

I mean it’s not that beauty is everything, there’s things that matter less,

Like maybe how you didn’t look back at me this time, and smile,

Like how your fingers left mine a mini-second earlier,

Like how maybe you didn’t hold my waist when you told me you love me,

I mean it’s not you, it’s me.

For these things are mere ignorance, gone with the wind, I mean humans forget, I mean you still love me,

But in my head it’s always,

I’m not good enough,

I’m not good enough,

I’m not good enough!

Because it’s just my head oh my love, it’s my head, it’s the thoughts that come themselves,

excruciating PAIN I can’t get rid of….

You might get tired, hearing that I’m going down that black hole again….

But the truth is…in the galaxy of my life…this black hole won’t go away…

Forever sucking the life out of me, making me want to rip my hair out for it to just STOP!

Because it’s just who I am…who I’ve always been…

When hands that were not meant to touch me, touched me,

When bodies of scary devils burned themselves into the CD of my brain,

When every insult that ripped to the corners of soul….finally found their place in my grey matter,

And now…..it’s shaped me into who I am.

You say I’m perfect, a masterpiece, a being sculpted to perfection,

And in your eyes I’m all that,

But the truth is…I’m ripped at every edge.

And you don’t need to feel upset,

Because it’s not you, it’s me.

For every breath I take I know I have a hand that’ll guide me through this abyss of darkness,

For I know you’re the light at the end of my tunnel, arms forever wide open in a loving embrace,

For I know you’re my silver lining,

And I know that this black hole exists, but you the gravity against the vacuum that wants to suck my entire soul out of me…

But when I tell you I’m there again, the place that imprisons me, where my demons feed on my aching soul,

Don’t look at me with sadness in those beautiful chocolate brown orbs,

For my love,

It’s not you, it’s me.


Would you dare to live for me?

You look into my brown eyes and whisper my name to me

I look up into your brown ones, and love is all I see

But then I look deeper still and I see so much pain

Images of agony behind us dancing in the rain

I know it’s cliche of me to ask you if you care

Because it’s obvious in your eyes, your love for me is there

But I need to know again, is it really me you trust

Or are you scared that what we have might just turn to dust

Because I know you’ve been hurt before, trust me I have been too

That opening my heart is not just one of the things I do

It’s real, everything, that we have in between

Tell me why you compare now, to how it’s always been

Because I’m different, I know, that’s what they all say

But it’s real, you and I, it’s as clear as night and day

Why’d you doubt my love, when it’s crystal clear to see

That my heart is yours, and yours belongs to me

External pain is easy, because it hurts then goes away

It’s the pain that’s inside, thats here and here to stay

Because dying is too easy, an end to all that hurt

No more endless crying, no more tears on your shirt

It’s living that’s the challenge, for everything’s a risk

Rewinding bad memories, like a movie on a disc

Remembering all that cut you, too deep to extract it out

Even recounting the details, makes you scream and shout

It’s living that proves how strong you really are

It’s inner strength that comes out and raises the bar

It’s the smile that comes to your face, when your heart is ripped at edges

Its when you come out and show yourself, not hide behind the hedges

For I’ve seen it, everything, that you think you don’t possess

That patience, that gratitude, that good in all your mess

We’re all messed up, it’s foolish to assume you’re one

It’s how you push through, that proves to be so fun

For the danger, the risk, the lack of a safety net

That’s life, hold my hand, let’s see how bad it can get

Or maybe, it’ll get better, maybe with you and I

We’ll pull each other up, we’ll get so bloody high

So high that we just might leave skies behind

With nothing in our sight, love making us blind

So instead of asking you, if you’d die for me

I ask you, would you dare to live for me

I wish I could show you the colours of my heart.

I wish I could show you, the state of my heart. I wish I could express the colours of how it works, I wish I could show you, what you do to it with merely your presence.

How before you entered my life, it was a mixture of black and blue, wounded and injured towards what seemed like an inevitable doom. Then as your light started flooding me, how it started to burst with red, the colour of lust and love, the colour of rubies, your birthstone, my birthstone, our birthstone. How then when you come closer, it turns emerald green, the colour of intoxication, the colour of the middle the of the sea where a person gets lost, with dangers at the waters, thrilling and dangerous. I wish I could show you the brown it turns, the colour of rust when you’re away, because you’re the one who kept shining my heart to keep it rust free. How my tears contribute to the process of rusting because I just can’t stay away from you, because there comes a point where the rust makes it struggle to keep beating. But then when our lips connect, it’s a shower of purple, the kind that makes you feel like you’re on top of the world, the kind that blurs your vision, the neon kind which makes your blood flow go into a frenzy. Then when we make love it’s a shower of Zircon, so blue it makes us feel like we’re swimming with waves in our bodies, jerking against each other, holding each other with the tides pleasure pulls in, breaking away to fill our lungs when we run out of breath, only to go back under water again. Then when we break apart, chest heaving, in each other’s arms and it’s golden, with the warmth of love and comfort radiating from my heart to the rest of your body, keeping both of us cozy. I wish I could show you the colours of my heart.

You’ve turned my blue to gold.

Every time I think back to that day, I feel like my mind sees the images in filters. I see you, smoking away with your hair in a bun, I see the sunlight coming in through the blinds, filling the room with a warm hazy glow. I see myself, wrapped in sheets, looking at you with such love that it’s piercing, even blinding. I see the rose petals on the floor, I see the bottle of champagne on the table, I see the chocolate wrappers everywhere. It’s all so…French. Over every memory that was blue, I start looking for that warm hazy glow in every one; for the smell of tobacco in the air and the taste of nicotine on your lips is what feels like home. It’s you, who’s turned my blue to gold.

Maybe her perception might become reality.

Maybe you’d make fun of her for disappearing into the libraries so often, or her ability to get lost in the fantasies of storybooks. Maybe all you see is a girl with a passion for taking pictures, but it’s what you don’t see that matters. How she’d much rather live in her own mind, than in this cruel world. How every picture she takes isn’t enough, how there’s never enough vibrance, never enough colour to make an image picture perfect. How if the world seems too dark and grey, she’d add her own saturation and flares to make it colourful. How the world of photography is her escape, for if she can’t control the world, she can control her own perception of it. How maybe someday, her perception of it might actually help her move forward. How maybe the colour she provides to the world so selflessly, might actually become reality.