To open my chest cavity with the gentlest knife and access my lungs would surely gift her the utmost vulnerability on my part.

She could shift my ribs and pull them apart with her delicate fingers the way a scraping tool can divide the paint of a water color.

She’d grace my heart with her open palm and keep it beating until her body would tire the same way mine did.

As close to that point as possible though, I’d learn to continue beating on my own.

Our love was toxic and neither of us could benefit at once, but perhaps if we didn’t try so hard to prove it we could’ve survived.

She’d pull away.

The slender blades that were her careful fingers would caress my lungs to feel the faint breath I was given for one last time before she went.

Although her touch was gracious, it was filled with sharp ghosts that invaded my flesh and sliced through these lungs of mine and as much as I loved her, I couldn’t breathe.



original image


Signing off for the year, my name is Marshall Xiathum. Thanking you for following and reading my content.

Inspired by Tragic Beauty

Twelve hours flickered away as the cascading gloom of night scattered away to unveil the looming sunrise. Her phone was silent in those ticking hours whereas it’d normally be consumed with a familiar voice that spoke of nothing in particular. If not that voice, at least gentle breathing, muffled talk from exhaustion, or even the buzzing of the phone as it alerted a text message. All of the above had been absent tonight. Amongst this bewildering silence, the girl sat upright to gaze downwards at her phone, Nothing. Why hadn’t her love spoken to her tonight?

Upon past scenarios the two had shared, silent nights normally indicated not-so-accidental accidents. There had been a lot of them too. Overdoses, unzipped arms, rope necklaces, occasional flying from the roof of the closest building that looked high enough.  Each silence was unsettling. Help never did what it was suppose to though. Misery loved only company and company the two were, misery and all.

The girl stood and shuffled to her bedroom door, the rattling of her air conditioner desperately attempting to keep up with her human need for heat sounding constantly throughout the air. Over her thin tank top and baggy pyjama pants, she donned her winter coat as well as boots and a hat. She opened the door. Then another. Soon, she had embarked outside. Snow crunched under her boots as the thick footwear mercilessly flattened any material in her path. Her steps were meaningful. Nothing else in her life had been.


It had been twenty minutes of rigid breathing due to frozen air and groaning snow until the girl had finally reached a small and dilapidated residence. Sun peeked hopefully over the horizon. Its rays hugged the fronts of trees and the surface of snow, evading the shadows like the darkness was toxic. The snow was untouched in this area, but among that virgin snowfall that blanketed the ground there lied a mess of crimson hair and familiar curves. She didn’t rush. She didn’t run. Snow rhythmically crunched under her once again as she approached the only origin of color.

There, another girl laid bare. Her light eyes with the darkest rings from exhaustion were wide open. Her skin had become the faintest white to the point of translucency and every inch of it was visible. Even the lips that once parted for an expected kiss were now clasped tightly shut and tinted blue. Like the snow that bathed the earth around her, she was still. Untouched.

The girl that stood over the crippled form of beauty would’ve been devastated if she hadn’t had known how badly the other wanted this. The sun continued to climb up the sky and as it did she sat beside the girl, took the hypothermic hand that lie motionless, clasped it in hers, and brought it to her lips.

“You were as cold as winter before sunrise, yet you could be as fragile as porcelain. Indescribable in a way, but it seems the amount of words I could use never stopped.

Daybreak has came and went. You are gone.”


I wrote my Inspired By piece on Tragic Beauty by Mechanical Rose. I literally went through their entire profile and printed out every single piece on the webpage. I enjoy their work thoroughly. I actually used a modified version of the piece itself in the closing dialogue line of my short story type of thing. All credit to the original writer for that, really. Thank you.

3D Glasses

They’ve sat idle in your drawer for nearly four years now. The two-tone lenses popped out from the last time you thought you could be ‘edgy’ and wear them because they looked cooler than your actual glasses. Your vision was impaired with them on, but heck, they made your face look proportionate for once.

Wearing them isn’t cool anymore. You only have them today for a presentation in the previous hour in which you referred to the time when everyone did wear them. You should really throw them away. They don’t have much purpose sitting in your drawer.

If only you weren’t a genuine hoarder and could gather enough willpower to dispose of the old memories you’ve acquired at movie theatres.

If only they were still cool.


Enoch is reliant on time and obsessively checks it as a side effect of his OCD. He eventually meets someone who distracts him long enough for Enoch to no longer be strictly dwelling on clocks, while still respecting his other compulsions. Eventually, Enoch becomes reliant on this someone and realizes that a ‘forever’ can be found in many things. Not just the unreal constructs that abide us.

Click for Script.

You are, I am

You are a meadow

I am only a flower

You’re greater than me


My frail petals are no match

For your gorgeous colors vast


Your long beautiful petals melt my heart

Causing me ultimate happiness

Please never leave me for I love you


Not even the sun shining

It’s golden rays can compare

i n d i g o


Looks like the pigment of a blue pen

Perforated ink examined up close

Darkest dyes analysed and categorized as-


Sounds like liquified gasps as you begin to drown

In the water that isn’t clear, that is instead black

Blackened with French tea oxidized to appear-


Tastes like a brimful stomach, but a bare tongue

Artificial flavour is only a memory

On your tongue stained-


Feels like the familiar morphed into the unknown

But really, you just haven’t seen the neighborhood

Darkened with that midnight-


Can consume the senses with subtle deceit and proves to be a continuous enigma.


I chose to write a color poem as I feel like colors can harbor the most unexpected emotions. I feel as if color poems are the explanations of colors to someone who is blind. You use emotions and other senses to describe a concept that appears so simple on the surface, but is actually so much more complex. I think that’s what poetry is about. Indigo is my favorite color because it’s such a rich mix between blue and purple. It’s a mysterious color in my eyes.

I first began writing poetry in fifth grade and I really liked it. I’ve always been a ‘right brain’ kind of kid and very artistically inclined. I had never gone so in depth with it before this class though and I’m so glad I was able to experience so many different types of poetry. I still very much love poetry.


Is it silly of me to think of you?

A thought reminiscing in my still heart

You’re gone, you’ve left. But what else can I do?

But ponder that soul, that work of pure art.

You still message me occasionally

Nothing much more than a simple hello

Have you an idea what it does to me?

Explain why you left. Why you had to go.

I suppose my grip wasn’t tight enough

Because I let you slip away from me

I keep blaming myself, its getting tough

Your absence is ruining what’s left, I see

I only wish you had stayed much longer

Longer would have made this still heart again stir