Everyone Loves A Good Tragedy.

Love and despair are drawn from the same well.

I cannot always tell which is the poison,

And which is the cure.

— y.c.

Can you wait out the winter?

They’d been lulled into a false sense of security with this gentle, quiet version of him. But gentle didn’t mean safe, and quiet didn’t mean meek. The same terrifying fire burned in him still, an intense mix of unpredictability and unyielding.

— Yushan C.

They say I’m too young to be sad

and to smart to stay so quiet

but

Who made me this way?

Trust me,

It wasn’t me

— Yushan C.

“We keep wasting away, whiling away our days, chasing what? Fame? Fortune? Those might not last, darling. Love might. Hope might. Joy might. Chase those. They’ll keep you warm when cold fate abandons you in a trench on the side of a road.”

— what are we chasing? (y.c.)

Bastard,

they called you

As if the lack of father is a curse

(It is not)

Murderer,

they called you

As if the ones you killed deserved any less

(They did not)

Darling,

she called you

As if her gentle words would be enough to save you

(They were not)

Cursed,

you call yourself

What do they know,

of broken souls and

breaking hearts

mothered by a broken promise and

sired from a broken vow

(Nothing. They know nothing.)

— y.c.

WHAT TO DO WHEN THE DARK STARTS CALLING

Don’t say you’re fine. Every lie amplifies its siren’s call. 

Play music. The soft sort. The sort that sounds like lullabies and freedom, maybe a pinch of adrenaline. 

Work. Anything is enough to plug your ears, dull the dark’s edge. 

Lie. It’ll amplify it, but we’re all masochists here, aren’t we?

Punch something. A wall, maybe. The blood looks like eyes. The pain feels like teeth. 

Don’t say you’re fine. Fine doesn’t mean a damn anymore, anyways. It’s a cop out, a run out, a blindfold.

Close your eyes. 

Close your ears. 

It can’t get you here.

Dreamers with empty hearts and frozen hands,

you come running

crying “love”

when it’s

Convenient

when you’re tired of carrying the weight of the

world (responsibility)

and I let you in

the foolish, gullible villager falling

Always

for your tricks

but one day,

Your cries will no longer sound genuine and

that,

my love,

is the day you’ll perish

— a warning (y.c.)

A friend of mine wants flowers for her room, she says. 

She wants to make it beautiful and vibrant and fresh, but

Blossoms fade and petals mold, she says,

Clutching her falsified flowers, 

Petals carefully crafted—

A forgery,

hundreds of days in the making in factories where they make 

          hundreds of petals that never die.

Immortality is the prize, beauty a side effect, and yet

How many of us choose both as a goal?

-

—Immortality comes with plastic petals (y.c.)

I don’t love you anymore. 

-

I don’t love you anymore, 

But

-

There are days I wake up and I think I feel your arms around me 

And my lungs

Ache like I haven’t taken in enough air. 

-

There are days where I turn

with your name on my lips 

And there is nothing there, only empty air,

Dust motes and smoke. 

-

I don’t love you anymore, 

but

-

It’s been so long since I was alone, 

I’d forgotten the way loneliness tastes like regret 

when you’ve drunk enough of it. 

-

—y.c.