• alto_spade 5w

    The fear of being judged crept deeper inside my skin and it only made me want to run away. Far, far, fucking far away from everything I know and everybody who knows me.
    ©alto_spade

  • alto_spade 5w

    You know self deprecation is worth your time when deafening cries break down your walls to voice louder your whispers.
    ©alto_spade

  • alto_spade 5w

    I have voices that don't make sense and won't go quiet.
    ©alto_spade

  • alto_spade 13w

    You're a leftover, a broken shard of
    nothingness, pilled up in a corner
    to home dust. It's comfortably numb
    in the dark, no longer you have the
    need to cross collapsed bridges or
    search for hope in hollow tunnels.
    You want to break the Gremlin rules
    you set for yourself during the early
    hours of the day. Feeding the raging
    hell within you past midnight is what
    you call surviving. It only wants to lick
    your open wrists and consume every
    cell in your wreaked body. It just isn't
    one of those days you fight for a better
    you.

    Today, you don't care where you end
    and what is left of you for tomorrow.
    ©alto_spade

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    Just you
    -That's just how you are, born to be the sufferer of your own backstab-
    ©alto_spade

  • alto_spade 14w

    You'll be burning in your
    own personal cocoon,
    entrusted with the quest
    to shatter every ounce
    of self respect hidden
    underneath the layers
    of grey you've painted
    across your blue deviled
    soul with.

    Detach, just break off
    from people who merely
    want to leave you in
    the dark woods, alone,
    when you've gone too
    far to want to entwine
    your lifeline with their
    fingertips.

    You wake up everyday
    with a void, it swells as
    you survive one second
    at a time, on a loop you
    tell yourself to trust no
    one. It moulds into a pie
    in the sky when you melt
    for every touch of affection
    like a desperate, hungry
    leech feeding off on the
    streaming red.

    Don't run through the
    city, don't walk down
    the streets, don't hop
    abroad on hope looking
    for ways to close up the
    void, all roads here in
    cloaked paradise only
    lead you to a dubious
    hell of self pity.
    ©alto_spade

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    Drapetomania
    -You can run and run but it's never enough to get away from yourself-
    ©alto_spade

  • alto_spade 14w

    I can't admit I'm
    falling. I'm trying
    but I won't tell you
    why I can't sleep
    and can't stop my
    knees from bleeding.
    Lit a cigar, I'll breathe
    in the smoke for you.
    Empty a bottle of
    bourbon whiskey and
    break it, I'll take the
    broken pieces to slit
    my veins in half but
    don't turn on the lights
    to watch me bleed. I
    like it here in the dark,
    knowing you can never
    be here and still are.
    Just leave me when
    the sun comes up, act
    like a stranger and
    don't smile at me when
    we cross paths in hell.
    Leave me alone, I want
    you to, but come back
    when I can't hold on to
    my end of the pain for
    long. I don't need you,
    I don't want you to see
    me cry like I've lost you
    for the second time.
    Strangely, I knew it's
    going to happen all over
    again tonight.
    ©alto_spade

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    Me and myself
    -Don't look around for bloodstains. Look at your hands, it's still fresh-
    ©alto_spade

  • alto_spade 14w

    "A dollar and 50 cents, a dollar and 50 cents", I kept on repeating to myself. All I had were 2 nickels and a couple of dimes. I ran down to the time-worn, shady buildings behind the church. The lyrical melodies of autumn carried wind through the empty Brooklyn streets. Against the corner of a monochromatic convenient store, a man in rags couched with a placard that read -Help the homeless. God blesses you- He shook his empty pinto beans can, asking for the money I agreed on for a cigarette. "I got 20 cents, that's what I have", I lied. Lying came at effortless ease for me, growing up around compulsive liars who rubbed off their habituality on my nipper mind. He grilled at me till I broke the silence by getting on my knee, his eyes were shallow but I knew he was a thirst bucket. "I'm dead-ass, son. Nothing less than a buck", he hissed back at me. If only I could play my cards right with a poker face, I would get my first smoke for 20 cents. It was brick cold, the falling sun was chasing away the last of rays, it wouldn't be long before the mercury vapour street lights lit up the borough. I stood up to walk away.

    Jostling through the early night pedestrian traffic, my hands were inside my hood. I caressed the tripping paper of the stubbed cigarette I've bargained for with one hand and the other was juggling the coins I've got left. While crossing the road, I handed a nickel to an old homeless woman outside the cafe who always smiled at me. "Do the dishes, you don't help around here much, I'm not gonna do your chores for you",my mom yelled from the porch where she was drinking with her beau. I locked myself in my room, opened the window and climbed up on to the roof. It was quite strange, I was holding a cancer stick in my hand, this could kill me. The euphoria it pushes you into, the calmness that dwells through your veins, warmth of smoke engulfing your lungs is weighing against my health. I chuckled, a few puffs of nicotine couldn't and wouldn't kill me more than global warming. It's going to be a one-time temporary relief.

    I relit the stubbed cigarette and took a drag. I wouldn't say it choked me to death, but I did, for a few seconds, think my lungs were going to char. It got relatively better, the oppression slowly drew back and my mouth reeked of smoke. I could hear my mom yelling, it was met back with an equal pitch, another drag silenced the buzzing. Happiness is momentary, it comes with a cost, but what remains in you is always the sorrow, its residue doesn't evaporate into thin air. It stays, it haunts, it needs to be hidden before you get caught. The world pities you as a bystander if it catches you in the act. The morning after, I was at the homeless man's feet, waiting for him to wake up. He opened his eyes to me and closed them again. A smirk came across his face, his price was the same, a dollar and 50 cents and I didn't bargain. I walked past the homeless woman, she still smiled at me, but as I turned around the block, I felt guilty. On the roof again, the clattering continued and I was under the stars. I traced the Cepheus constellation with my finger, smoke settled in my lungs and I knew it was eating me away.

    I'm tired, tired of begging for pills to put me to sleep. "One more smoke, I would go back to bed", I pleaded with my wife. 5, 10 and 15 years passed by, it was my time to quit. Nicotine withdrawal has been a wave of relapses followed by ugly fights. I've got the support, I'm afraid my triggers would push her away. I knew I need to walk away from cigarettes, if not now she would slam the door shut behind me. Chronic obstructive pulmonary disease was what they called it, but I knew it was just a substitute for the slow death I've pounced on. Waking up everyday to my lungs burning, anxiety and abdominal pains shook me up and made me beg for a smoke. Addiction is a ghost, always having an eye on you, luring you into its traps and possessing you at your weakest point. It was during one of my triggers, I realised true happiness is short-lived but never disguised.
    ©alto_spade

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    One of many more
    -To the ashes I've sung with nicotine in my lungs-
    ©alto_spade

  • alto_spade 15w

    His footsteps never warned me, the air that carried his filthy, malodorous aroma did, as he chipped up darkness by leaving the door half shut, my mind circled around his past mastery to cut lifetimes short. I knew he would come for me, like he came for the rest of them who were battered to shards before my time. He cloaked himself as a slice of the cosmos, illuminating lifeless bones with a spark of intimate gesture. I saw him exhibit his tools, in an apple-pie order, his eye for detail and amelioration jammed a dagger into my abdomen.

    He slid his hand around my naked waist and the gentle stroking irked the blood beneath my flesh. His eyes speculated my body, I felt his breath thrusting into my lungs as he carved me into a piece of his fantasy. The emptiness inside my heart felt cold whispers prodding it to run for the door. He slammed the door shut and pinned me down on a metal table, spread me wide and came over me with lustrous greed. A wave of sharp pain crushed my bones with every blow I took from his gnawing saw. He didn't let me squeal for help, tossed me around, piled me up close and marked his authority on every limb.

    Drilled through the layers of strength I've immured in my arms, reamed my hips and pierced strings of force captivity through the hollow depressions he punctured his sin in. Dolled me up for an audience who wasn't cognizant of the tears flowing behind the curtains, pulled my strings and played me to narrate tales of good verses evil. The ancient Roman myths of Aeneas, Lucretia, Romulus and Remus were told for ages by his fingers, but no one ever heard of where they have been in me. I learned to fake a smile, hid behind characters, blamed the heavens for the pain I've been bestowed upon and let out silent curses even for the slightest of nature's sobs.

    During nights, in between plays, he etched my skin for his impish glee and left me alone till he had to put me up for another show. I was dead for years counting my heartbeats, long nights slapped away emphatic hands with disgust and I hid behind the shadow of my worst fear. Now, I am of no use, thrown into a corner with the rest, I look on as he hammers the arms of another wooden toy. Would this one cut itself loose and step up to the world to tell on the puppeteer?
    ©alto_spade

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  • alto_spade 16w

    My mind, a euphemism
    for death, woke me up 10
    minutes before the alarm
    was set to go off. I rolled
    over to the edge, darkness
    felt uncannily appealing, in
    those intimate moments
    of self loathe, I found myself
    lost in grey reverie. A smirk
    staggered on my lips, I closed
    my swollen eyes and rolled
    over the remaining extra
    inch that held me back from
    feeling the cold floor against
    my suffocation tendencies.
    I've made peace with the
    murmurs that pull me up
    on lapses in judgement and
    shove me into a trance of
    endless pity. Sat cross-legged,
    leaned against my bed while
    waiting for the sun to rise
    from the misty mountains
    of the ever so dead town
    that never ceased to feed
    off on ear-splitting silence.

    I saw a reflection of my inner
    self facing me, covered in shabby
    red with a smug on its face. It
    leaned closer and caressed the
    last trails of self esteem with its
    opium licked lips. The first rays
    of dawn pierced through darkness
    to fall on my frail human body.

    Light was my last beacon of
    hope. I never felt so defeated,
    but when light passed right
    through the hole in my soul,
    I knew even stardust would
    rot in me.
    ©alto_spade

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    Blinds down
    -Closing up wounds was never easy-
    ©alto_spade

  • alto_spade 18w

    "Pancakes are ready", she called out. I was petrified to walk into the kitchen, it was the third time that week, the sheets were ruined again. Those eyes I've been trying to shield myself away from fell on me, her dilated pupils threw stomach-churning skeans dipped in proteolytic venom at my 4 year old fragile body. I was yanked by my arm and tossed into the bathtub, was made to wash the sheets and my pajamas. My mother was never the kind of woman who believed in farfetched theories like nightmares and monsters hiding under my bed, punishment and starvation were her modi operandi to make a child learn. On many occasions, she chose the former over the latter. The branded scar on my right wrist is a work of her art, a masterpiece she was proud of till the day they lowered her coffin into an empty grave.

    A few years later, I woke up from my nap to a living nightmare, heard screams coming from the backyard, running out of charcoal for a barbeque dinner opened up a can of worms. Affairs and infidelity sprung into the picture, you can't leave the blame game out of it. Red with rage, my old man slammed the back door shut and walked in with a fag in his mouth. He cracked open a beer can with his lighter and chugged it down. He hissed at me and put me down with his choice of words I wish I never heard. "You, you little punk is the reason for this, I had to marry her because of you!" he yelled at me. He pinned me to the couch to put out his cigarette on my collarbone. With tears streaming down my cheeks, I saw in his eyes malice and resentment.

    That year at summer school, I was asked to stay back and help around for the coming field day. I stacked up all the chairs to move them out while a prudent man in his early 40s helped me. He observed my behaviour, helped me with my speech impairment and inability to get along. He was fond of me, rather too fond in a way, he slipped his hand into my shorts. After coming back home, I felt strange, my body felt ruined and I stayed up all night questioning myself why I obliged to take off my shorts.

    Therapy was a child's play, you don't need to feel emotions to present them to a room full of people. Fake a charming smile, look into a pair of eyes with confidence and work on body language. I wasn't a psychopath, it was a term I least favoured to be tied up to. Bullied from a young age, I had to take out my craving pleasure for torture on life weaker than me, I inclined towards hares, squirrels and my neighbours' dog's whimpering still tops my playlist.

    She looked breathtaking in her lace trim backless dress, swayed with grace through the crowd and ordered a glass of red wine to get the night going. Her seducing aroma enticed my nerves and it seeded a passion for authority around her delicate neck. I followed her around, grew jealous of the men she went home with, got obsessed with her mannerisms and the way her fingers tapped the edges of her empty glass while waiting for it be filled again.

    The cops asked me if I found sexual gratification in strangulation. I looked at them in awe, I was just slightly choking her. She never complained, unless clawing my face with her nails and stomping my foot with her heel was a sign of her discomfort. Too bad they can't ask her now. While lying on my metal bunk bed, I look on with pity at my motionless prison mate on the cold floor. Waiting on death row was never on my bucket list, as the days rolled by, with the electric chair just a few hours away, I wondered what I should have for my last meal.
    ©alto_spade


    -No disclaimer available-

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