Writers On Instagram - Blog Posts

Mother, I think I’m cursed

This air is turning to poison

This heart is falling apart

Mother, I think I’m blind

The path is dark and winding

No light shines on these parts

Mother, I think I’m dying

There’s nothing but numbness here

and a voice whispering, “We’re all mad here”

Mother, I don’t want you to save me

This darkness has begun to feel like home

and it truly has been so long since

I felt at home

— y.c.

We are home.

No, we are not all in the same house

the same city

No, we don’t all go home to peace

but we are home.

Words cannot abandon us

Hope cannot fade so long as we keep

Holding

On

so

Hold

On

Home isn’t always where the heart is

Sometimes

All it is

is a pen

paper

poems

But it doesn’t matter

Home is what you make it even when you’re not

making it so

take a deep breath

Look around you.

No matter where you are now

One day, I promise you:

We will be home.

— 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.

Did you come from Hell,

oh Goddess?

Did you rise from brimstone and flame,

wielding words like swords?

They call you a demon

but then again,

They have always mistaken

strength for sin

when it comes to

We

who wear beauty

(like armour)

and swallow cruel words

(like bitter medicine)

— Yushan C.

Home is teddy bears

exuberant cheers

child’s laughter

parents’ pride

Home is quiet 2 A.M. conversations

thoughts too loud for music

words too raw to speak

pen ink fresh on a page

Home is tea steeping

cookies baking

alarms beeping

clocks ticking

Funny how so much of

Home

is what I made from

Everything

you never gave me

— Yushan C.

Tell me,

When you look into his eyes,

do you see storms brewing

like the ones that tore your home to shreds?

When you hear his voice,

do you hear the rumble of thunder

deep and unyielding

accompanied by that flash of smirk-lightning?

Child,

he was not made

to be handled by soft hands

and dewy eyes

He was not made for gentle hearts

and forgiving minds

He was made to

level cities

decimate countries

raze the world to the ground

— Yushan C.

Ver • ti • go

(noun)

1. Standing on a rooftop with you and your

daredevil smirk and unfaltering gaze; the

warmth of your hand as you took mine,

joy turning my world to a dizzying

kaleidoscope of scents and colours

2. Standing in an empty flat with pieces of you

and me scattered on the floor; feeling that

chasm opening inside me and knowing your

wouldn’t be here to catch me, not this time

(—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.

I found a drawer of letters the other day.

All of them addressed to me

All of them an

apology.

They went back

three months when

we only been together for

two

Did you know,

even then,

that you loved me?

And did you know,

even then,

that we wouldn’t make it?

The letters say y e s .

I wish they’d said n o

instead.

— Yushan C.

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.

Quiet

She was quiet

        But not in a nice way

She was the silent storm

        The blow that came out of nowhere

        The one you never saw coming

She’s been through hell you can’t even imagine

        Her scars are a shield

        Her words are weapons

She can’t be controlled

        Tamed

She is the wild wind

        The rebel without a cause

        The broken fallen angel

She’s beautiful like an ocean in a tempest

        Like a phoenix rising from the ashes

She walks in the wake of battle and turns her head to the blood-red sky 

        And smiles.

She is quiet

        Not in a nice way

She is quiet the way 

        Lightning

Makes no sounds before it

        Strikes       

— Yushan C.