Hello. My name is Gian. I write things at: Poetry Gian.
I'm 22 years old and trying to figure out what it is I care about. Come for the calaveras, stay for the mermaids.
I have always had a soft spot for winter, the way other kids who lived near me held parties and small gatherings inside, like a secret sort of sect or cult, the way I would inhale the morning bus stop air and it was so cold that its long claws grasped my very soul. I loved the nights I would spend walking home from catching the late bus and watching all the cars speed past me into the lonely distance, I would have my head phones in, blocked off from reality I was in my own world. My fingers were always covered with flecks of paint, on the long rides home from University I would inspect them, “working hands” I thought to myself,” like a builder” only I was building other things.
Tell me where it hurts, she’d say. Stop howling. Just calm down and show me where.
But some people can’t tell where it hurts. They can’t calm down. They can’t ever stop howling.
I wish I could show you, when you are lonely or in darkness, the astonishing light of your own being.