Twelve manifestations of the twelfth day.

Some incomplete poems that I wrote, or tried to, throughout the years for her.

Trigger Warning: This text contains explicit depictions of suicide, intense emotional distress, and suicidal ideation. It may be disturbing to some readers. If you are struggling or thinking about harming yourself, please seek help. In Canada, you can call 988 (Suicide Crisis Helpline). In the U.S., call or text 988 or use the webchat at 988lifeline.org. You are not alone.

The flasks — small moons — stand aligned along the horizon’s ledge.

But what cruelty, for her to give it all back to me in triple.

Dear murderer,I have been sentenced by you to a death that will last the next forty years.

I discovered I had aged the day I stopped imagining clouds.

She still surfaces sans summoning.

this one tastes like the time you hurt me.

I ask for silence in this sacred dump.

They are loves that survive on the love of others.

What would I do with all the tears I’ve shed.

Vanish from my synapses.

The tears washed my soul.

Life is a parade of monotony.

Daily life is a parade of monotony.

Gabriel, drinking from the fountain of love, imagined dying.

Infallibly, entropy swallows us.

Patient is unstable but functional for now.

And there is still much war at the front.