textbook exception; z.hao

four

"silent anticipation"

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" he never had a chance to be soft. he was always bloody knuckled and shards of glass. he wanted people to be afraid of hurting him, but how did the universe bottle so much wonder inside of him? the graveyard of stars could not match the sparkle in his jagged edges or the arrangement of stardust orbiting his irises. flower child ready to blossom, denying his petals the chance to bloom will only cause damage to those self crafted pieces of his soul. why is it that he lash out? he blame the switch inside of him that others love to flick, but i blame myself. i blamed myself for not telling him sooner that he was design with grace and dipped in nature's womb. i blame myself for not softening his rough edges or giving him a taste of this softness that isn't lost in the world— "
-journal of 2018
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zhang hao

2017

the birds chirping along singing the blues while the trees danced the waltz away, the wind giving a supporting hands, music halting its way towards every being, a single note occupying my whole existence. her, the person who has been in my mind since forever; a thirteen years old stuck in a seventeens body, the child in me was healed as she look my way with the slightest bit of heart eyes.

hopelessly in love with someone i couldn't have, romanticising heartbreaks, self-aware this love everything else but love, buried in the dark, unfree like a bird stuck in its cage for years until it can't fathom to live, lying unconscious until its owner notices. we were asymptotic, growing closer to each other but couldn't be the end game in every fairytale; the prophecy of sun & moon, in needs of each other, completing each weakness and harnessing the strength of one another, the right person at the wrong time.

we were as if the sky and tide, belong together in a perfect pictured-framed, bound to compliment each beauty of the others, longing in silence anticipation of wanting one another, always silenced of own flesh, ones always sorry while the other gave up at the sight of challenge. after all, two hopeless romantics, the opposite of each other, having own self-complicity wouldn't be able to love each other with all of themselves.

so why do i, still care so so much? perhaps it's the childhood i never get growing up, forced to mature way to early, my childhood being robbed from my own life. perhaps it's the mother love i never get— i'd tried to blame her for sculpting me to be this way, but then again, it might be my own willingness, no matter how much hatred i carry, we shared the same blood flowing in our veins, i couldn't objectify the wrongdoings, but i'll defend them even in the wrong.

...

"did you get home well yesterday?" a voice spoke from behind, my body turn on reflex, hera. my minds occupied with yesterday's, my heart longed for her love, the self-consciousness in me disagree, the voices screamed for help, pleading not to mess up, knowing it'll cause a ruckus.

"yeah," i simply reply, not looking at her, silently, the missing organ on the sternum of my chest felt like it was stabbed over and over again with a kitchen knife by the love of my life. secretly taking a glance, the illicit affair we shares, she knows it all too well like how ares ruined mankind with jealousy and hatred.

i pondered on what she might had felt, careful, tip toeing around everyone else, in a room filled with hundreds of human being, all i see was her; her smooth hair glows perfectly in touch, her innocent eyes and the confidence she shows which made people respect her. long story short, she makes it easy for people to love and respect her as an individual; her figure of speech, the elegies she wrote, her knowledge, her. romanisation of sad prose, a dead woman on the sideline of one's story.

there was a discernible difference with you which is the very thing that set you aside from others. came the moments you'll speak, with careful thinking and wise decision making. no detection of biases brought by your fleeting feelings. everything reminds me of your coruscating self, the pink tulips lying on the counter, the book you always read lying on my desk, and the cinnamon scented candlelight you always mentioned.

i'm the daffodil on a field of thorn roses.

huang hera

the city before us, shining with bright light, shimmering bath of the night sky filled with stars us mortal could only see and never comprehend. i had discarded the files of memory in my directory, completely banish from one's thought, cease to remember at all.

then, came a person so exquisite, sent from aphrodite's shrine herself. incandescent he was, a laugh like stars in the night sky, got moon-eyes with reflected ataraxy, his voice sweet as poetry. how could a mortal be as perfect as the elegies i had written in my lifetime of pointless nothingness?

interest he had shown to me, a dead-woman walking the earth on the sideline of one's story, i had took this vouchsafe of eulogies and built myself upon the attention and praise of others. romanticising the melancholy of romance, the tale of romeo and juliet had been abandoned. perhaps, the modern-day folklore would be pulseless instead of running adrenaline and blood-rushing pumps, a pit of black hole instead of happily every one after, a black dog instead of white doves.

my heart desire for gathered fog which'll burn with first daylight of expose reality, a devotion to another with tied soul as mine. my inclination for elegiac which does not exist resemble the pink camellia on the imagery garden i created in my mind. darling, i'd give red carnations to portray my longing silences.

perhaps the universe heard my cry of desperation, as he had walked through the gate of my vision, standing in front of me with melodramatic cry for help. beauteous he was, enchanting me with his alluring charm, the love interest in everyone's untold chapter.

my thought wonder off the sloppy hills and valleys of my metaphoric life. why would someone as sweet as ivory of sun-kissed sunrises asked for agonising windy rain and heavy snowstorm in winter? this falsify affair was beyond crossing the line, both knowing the consequences of unspoken feelings.

- illicit affairs and clandestine
meetings and stolen stare.