i’m gonna have
an accidental suicide
nobody has to know
and when you come over
notice the places
i left everythingwash the taste of me right out your mouth
clean it good but don’t forget about
(lock the door close the windows turn off the light it’s alright)
upon the demons i may see, and the filth i shall smell, i’ve held a crooked smile, bleeding from the lips.
i don’t taste or hear anything anymore.
but not to worry, dear oracles. these little details mean nothing for the big picture. or the future. too bad people can’t see that.
i may be quiet now.
but wait and see.
My heart was, and still is, wrapped in a red, gentle silk – first so cold to touch, but becomes the same temperature as your own. It becomes that comfortable symbiont. Day-by-day, the maidens, draped in full black and eyes too numerous for selfish happiness, weave new layers when the old ones become exhausted. Gently, helices of blood-red insulation follow when the day starts a-new. Each apology wraps the wounds. Each trauma is fixed.
But when the maidens themselves become dismissed and they leave on their own, there is no agent to wrap the warmth back to the medulla. Slowly, the threads unravel and the heart will quiver. The heart will rebel, perhaps it may decide to stop beating in protest. Some overcome it with a coat of themselves, or adaptation. Some let the heart rest.
When the deciduous heart unveils its branches, the heart is no longer red – it is covered in blue-black patches, lacerations in the deepest, microscopic levels. The irony it must be to realise the heart bleeds too. These do not leave. No matter how many layers of silk you wrap around an irreparable injury, the pain never goes away. You would be a fool to think you can run away when you’re clenching your breast.
When the blood is no longer rich with air, the body becomes cold and blue, like a never-ending desert of snow – once a beautiful land with legume and the energy of the sun that becomes brushed with blue-white paint. Perhaps it is nothing but the sky on the ground, and you’re walking downside up. Taste the snow – let it be nothing but the cremated hearts of unrequited, or incomplete, quintessential love.
Let the eyes face closest to heaven, and call upon the angels. You will see their envy in the ultimate human capacity. Endearment. There is only one dimension so far that allows such a juxtaposition – such an imperfection – to be an adaptive quality. It becomes the birth of art, and the death of innocence. It becomes the reason why you call upon those that do not answer, and the reason why you hold your head down in sympathy.
Taste the sky. Smile because it’s the only remnant of your sanity. It’s the only remnant to love.
The way life progresses forward is confusing, but interesting, like a never-ending labyrinth created by the quintessential arrangements of foliage and roots. Sometimes you want to walk in the little openings or cut your way through, only to realise that sometimes you’re just cutting the wrong way.
I stopped paying attention to that after a while.
Indeed, this is the blog of Franky Liu. Voukah is simply a compilation of random thoughts and useless rambling as he goes through an interestingly mundane life. With that, he is quite emotional and many times annoying; sometimes he wonders if he is narcissistic as well. He also may cause upset stomach. He also enjoys speaking in third person.
Voukah, its design and its writing belong to Franky Liu, with the exception of quotations, stock images, or anything otherwise obvious. Yes, the damned design is mine.