THE EDEN PROJECT - AUDIO FILES

if this reaches you, subscribe for more at edenexempt.substack.com - it’s freeMy fingertips breach the sandCastles built on this beach dissolvedin the absence of youI reshape the soil until it resembles the artand bury my face in its mimicryi breathe it in to be with youfingers running through sandearth escaping between the spaceswhere i brushed your hairthe sand sticks to my skinas if even the earth wont let go of youmy mind keeps shaping what wont ever staythe tide crept in and dissolved your vicesand left you untouchedI’m stranded here without you to counterthe waves erasing what we once built togetherI pluck shells from the groundand arrange themin your beautyand line the edges to the tidethe sand grits against my eyes Get full access to THE EDEN PROJECT at edenexempt.substack.com/subscribe

I have always treated sleep like surrender.This poem came from the point where exhaustion becomes ideology.Sleep will loom like a shadowScreaming about my abandonmentSleep will lurk and cast dreams over my daylightIt will take what it cannot get backI will always refuseMy body crumblesIt’ll lower the lightWithout asking its masterI’ll give sloth a solutionReplace it with precisionInstall a needle into my ecosystemThat votes amphetamines for meEvery few hoursStimulate instead of surrenderI will lie down once a weekIn a sarcophagusand pretend to be forgottenThe rest of it’s cycleMy casket shall remain openStudents once tried to evict sleepfrom its very genomeThey brought their own gears and toolssmall enough to fit into a pencilimportant enough to alter the futurethey were toldthis is not medicineIt is ideologyThey were the ones evicted insteadSleep won the battleAnd I still have to negotiate with my nervous systemSloth will call my unwavering obligationComplianceThank you for reading nocturne - this was rejected by a poetry publication. What do you think? Get full access to THE EDEN PROJECT at edenexempt.substack.com/subscribe

We ripped the cake apart with our bare hands.The clock struck a soft 7pm on Sunday and there were dozens of us hunched over a cafeteria table. Grit clinging to the edges of the metal folds of the folding chairs we used to sit on during therapy.I was the youngest there. 17 in a place made for people in their 30s. And now it was my birthday. I was becoming an adult.The gravity of it would hit me that night, and with that, the tears would too. A soft sob caught in my throat while I tried to grasp what was so fundamentally wrong about my existence in that cell. Alone. Rooms that stunk of vomit and human waste. The smell barged into your nose like an unwanted guest.The worst part is that I knew who it belonged to by name. I’d have lunch with them that day - if they were well enough.We asked for a knife to cut the cake. A brief look of confusion washed over us before we remembered where we were.We dug our fists in instead.Tearing chunks of the creamy chocolate dessert and jamming them onto plates. We didn’t care much for hygiene. We were all well acquainted with each other - and what disgusts most people doesn’t disgust you quite the same when you live in a building where the smell of urine, feces and vomit mix into an omnipotent presence.I snapped back into my seat when a hand slapped down on my shoulder.Beanie.That’s what we called him.A man in his 30s who was addicted to more pills than there were letters in the English language. I don’t know a substance he hadn’t tried.Here’s the thing they don’t tell you when you enter rehab - you don’t talk less about drugs. You trade information like they’re Pokémon cards. Everyone has a story and everyone has different experiences. When I entered rehab I was a rookie. By the time I left, I knew how to find a cannabis dealer in my area by the type of car they drove and the location they’d park it.Beanie was a kind of smart you’d only find at the bottom of a pill bottle. He was witty, funny - but the pills had hijacked his mind and taken his soul from right under him. He was a junkie but he was a good person.Beanie clutched my shoulder.“Smile more dude. It’s your birthday.”“I don’t feel like celebrating. I feel like s**t in this hell hole.”He was optimistic for a guy dealing with withdrawals.“We all feel like s**t — but hey, you’re getting out in 10 days. I’m leaving in 5. Don’t worry, I’ll bring everyone takeout from the outside.”That turned out to be a lie.You feel so happy about leaving rehab. And when you finally do, you realize being outside after 3 months inside is more restricting than your time inside. It’s painful to realise you’re being monitored. They don’t want you to talk to active rehab members once you leave - a rule enforced to ensure no one shares information about drugs, to reduce relapse occurrences.It never worked.That night I crawled into my sheets and thought about everything that led me to where I was.I didn’t know it yet, but I wouldn’t be able to talk to my girlfriend after rehab for another 7 months. It was a long distance relationship. When I returned, she was gone. I lost someone I had known for 4 years because they thought I had abandoned them or died - I’m not sure which one. I never got closure.I remember the pain I caused the people that led me to rehab. I had the letters they wrote me on my desk. In a pink bag my younger sister made.It hurt to read them. I was guilty - even though I pretended not to feel bad for my actions. I needed to act strong. It’s how I survived.I had a journal with notes from therapy. I wrote my first poems in that until I lost the original copy. I wasn’t a good writer back then but I had a passion for it.The night wrapped around me like nocturne - swept down and kissed my eyelids.I was a child. I didn’t need to be there. But I was. And I did.The only thing keeping me out of the grave was myself and it scared me. I had nothing to live for at 17.I cried like I had never cried before. A sob I had long forgotten - tears soaking my pillow, my heart wrenching like I had just died temporarily.I was a kid. A bad one.Authors note: If this reached you, chapter two is coming soon. Subscribe free to follow the memoir as it's written. Get full access to THE EDEN PROJECT at edenexempt.substack.com/subscribe

Never Forget Who You Arethe boy with a knife clutched in his handscursing happiness through the doorwayNever Forget Who You Were at 17the boy who crushed pills- a sharp inhale -amphetamines brokewhen the sleep medicines could notsleep has teethNever Forget Who You Are, Icarusa man with too much ashand no roads left to scatter themand your neck bentin silent worship of the sunNever Forget Who You Are, Bubbleyour father’s prideuntil the disease brokeandbubblestartedsoundingalittlelesslikeyounever forget who you are, tho tho“tho tho ma raza”the notes rung until they stuckgrandparents sing for youin a living room full of old leather chairsin a house you’ll never return tountil “ma raza” becomes truenever forget who you are, edenexemptA writer with a pen clutched tightly in his teethAuthors note: This is a non fictional poem carrying references to my culture, ethnicity and background. if you enjoyed this poem and want more like it, consider liking the post and leaving a comment - Icarus/Edenexemptthis page is a reader-supported publication. To receive new posts and support my work, consider becoming a free or paid subscriber. Get full access to THE EDEN PROJECT at edenexempt.substack.com/subscribe

I BREATHE LIES AND DECEIT LIKE THEY’RE WOVEN INTO MY LUNGSⅠ. I BREATHE LIES AND DECEIT LIKE THEY’RE WOVEN INTO MY LUNGSI SHIFT THROUGH STREETS LIKE THERE’S POISON ON MY TONGUEEVERY TRUCE I’VE MADE BECAME A TRUCE UNSTRUNGI’LL POLLUTE THE WORLD UNTIL I CALL MY BODY TO ROPEⅡ.MY FINGERS BLOOM BRUISES INTO ANYTHING THEY TOUCH - YOUR SKINI CARRY A DIVINE VERDICT DEEP WITHINIF I DARE SPEAK, IT CORRODES, IF I REACH, IT’S DEFILEDI’LL TURN YOUR PURITY FILTHY BEFORE DISTANCE MEETS ENTROPYⅢ.I AM GUILTY OF BEING, OF BIRTH, OF BREATHA FRACTURE AND A FLAW IN YOUR PERFECT CIRCLE OF EARTHA MARTYR TO NOTHING, TO A ROOM OF HANGING CORPSESA CAUSE WITH NO MEANING, THE BELIEF SPLINTERS ON TOUCHⅣ.A VOICE WILL SCREAM AND I’LL BUCKLE AT YOUR ALTARIT ECHOES IN MY VOICE THAT I DONT KNOW ANYMOREI AM WRONG, I AM RUIN, I SHOULD NOT HAVE BEENA CHORUS WILL BLEED THAT CROWNS ME THE ORIGIN OF SINⅤ.MY BODY STORES DAMAGE LIKE I’M BURIED ALIVEI’LL DARKEN THE NOOSE AND SUCK OUT THE LIGHTIF I’M HELD, I’LL CORRODE YOU UNTIL THERE’S NOTHING LEFTI’LL BLEED THROUGH YOUR DRESS WITH SHAME AND NEGLECTⅥ.I’LL SINK THROUGH YOU AND A WORLD THAT I’M SURE TO STAINWRAP DISTANCE AROUND MY THROAT AND START ANEW AGAINBETTER FORGOTTEN, UNTOUCHED, & UNSEENTHAN PROOF OF A SICKNESS THAT I SWEAR THAT I MEANⅦ.MAY THE STRING FALL AND THE CONTRAPTION FEEL PURPOSENO MORE THAN I, IN THE BACK OF A HEARSEIN DEATH, MAY I BE RID OF MY UNHOLY CURSELET THE FLOWERS ON MY GRAVE BE THE ONLY THING THAT LIVESNEVER MISS A FUTURE POEM - SUBSCRIBEDOWNLOAD THE FULL POEM + ANIMATED VERSION (7 PARTS):* 7 GIF STANZAS* HD FULL POEM IMAGETip: Right-click → Download all for best quality.* IF YOU SHARE ANY PART OF THIS, TAG ME AND I’LL REPOST IT! Get full access to THE EDEN PROJECT at edenexempt.substack.com/subscribe

if this reaches you — subscribe for more. it’s free.my fingers grasp a picture in my galleryit belongs to my futureher face is blurryskin translucenta touch unknownbones that dont fit her face A family of apparitionsthey’re all i’d havei imagine her presencein every place i haven’t visitedin the words, i dont remembera language of ghosts with no grammarsomewhere in that placewith ghosts i have yet to embracei’m inlove with themwith hermy hands relaxedchasing something small and stupida laugh unravelling in my throatthe kind of laugh that doesn’t get silencedin every picture of me and my wifemy face contortsinto an expression unknowna smileglowingand i’m him againin this existence, i smile at the pointlessmy hands open, reachingi trust without reasonsuspicion ceases to existin this futurei wasn’t just a boyi was your boyand i am him again Get full access to THE EDEN PROJECT at edenexempt.substack.com/subscribe

SLAM POETRY AUTOBIOGRAPHYHead to the ground, heard god through the drywallash in my tray, blade steady at my pulse nowKid with a lighter, hid from the man of the houseprayed to a father but that word already yours nowcigarette husks in my lungs when I breatheinnocence died in the cracks of my teethI didn’t know truth, I just learned how to break and kneellearned how to bleed without asking if what I was feeling was realscars don’t talk, they stare blank at my face backfaith got stripped, left me empty at the fucking bankI am a problem but I am the proofBuilt from everything that you didn’t want me to beYou took my life away with no empathysilence screams from my hanging treeI sit on a throne made from rust & painbarbed wire like a halo cutting into my brainEveryone prays as they lie at my feetHands on the wounds but they weren’t from meIn my head, dead forever since that dayPoison my decision, every choice that I makeMockery dressed up as destinyHow do I confess at your altar when my lungs are full of watereven in submission, my voice will never falterStab you in the back, silver tongue in my mouthJudas in spirit, I know what I am nowBrain full of ghosts that never shut upEvery echo screams “prove you’re worthy of love”They call me insane, cuffed in the pressFamily tree and my name is the messRead me my rights, I am ready to repent Get full access to THE EDEN PROJECT at edenexempt.substack.com/subscribe

This poem is for my mother. And for yours. And for every woman who has ever been called only in relation to someone else.WomenShe holds her photographsthe way water slips through fingertipsknowing it’ll leaveher embraceonce againin it, she wore red, sometimes a soft bluecolors that never seemed to fit her skin againher sister laughs, beside the whole familythe way families dobefore life began disrupting themI watch her eyestravel to that placethe small laugh, deep sighthe way her breath followsto the edge of a timewhere I was not born yetshe was thinner thenskinny wearing bones differentlyunaware of what they were yet to carryshe says she was more beautifuland then she turns to meand asks“Am I still pretty?”she waits for a answerI say “yes”the way sons dowhen the truth is too large to handleThey taught girls earlyhow to devote themselvesmake themselvesinto a giftpink ribbon, and allwrap their voices in soft edgesuntil they fit in a drawerno one would ever openhanded a measuring tapebefore she could speaktold her to hold it against herselfevery morningfor the rest of her lifebe good enough, be quiet enoughfit the space, they decided a woman should occupyshrink, become smaller firstspeak second, or not at allHer body borrowedfor childrenher future loanedto a societythat never learnedto appreciate herher name is still herstechnicallybut the light wraps differently around itwhen you’re a wife, mother, daughter in-lawcalled only in relationto someone elseand yetshe stands therethe woman that stood in the photographI see her sometimesin the way she laughswhen she forgetsthe world is watchingin the way she singseven though her voice catchesas if even her tonguehas been caughtin this borrowed futurein the way the colors reach for heruntil she puts them back on a rackthen sometimeson the happy daysshe’ll take them home anywayThey couldn’t stealwhat she never showed themshe kept it locked awayin a placewithout her husbandin a placeno silencecould ever legislateshe grew up to realizeshe’d always fall short of proving herselfshe holds her photographsshe is mourning, yesbut she recognizes someonewho is stillforeveralive Get full access to THE EDEN PROJECT at edenexempt.substack.com/subscribe