If i get a chance to go back in time
and wall in all my cracks, I don't know if I'd do it or not.
Because if the ruins weren’t planted under my skin and if they hadn’t prickled their way to my marrow,
I don't think the word braiding ability
in me would have ever been born.
I Don't think I'm great. I'm far away from it. I'm Just trying to ink my love with my half broken brittle words
It's not that i no longer explain my feelings and
emotions to myself, I still do.
But now, they take roots in the corner of my notebook,
or on the lines of my palm. In scribbles or cursive,
holding my chicken scratch handwriting.
It makes me laugh.
Nothing had ever been prettier until
i fed my eyes beauty in stanzas,
and let the words wrap around my throat,
some got stuck, but they didn't sting.
At least now, when i speak, it's not rage.
I think I've finally washed out my mother's last remains from me
Like dostoevsky said the worst sin he committed
was that he destroyed and betrayed himself
for nothing, and so did i.
But somehow poetry found Its way to me
and I'm so in love with it to wish
i hadn’t vanished into myself.
People lose them in love, i lost myself in poetry
And I don't ever want to be found,
nor do i want myself back.
Because when i was really me,
all they saw was mere flesh and blood.
But now i have a coat of morphemes on my bones,
They melt on my flesh seeping upwards to my skin,
They Pack my eyes in utterance
and i no longer feel the need to see who sees me or not
I Don't even try.
I'm just drunk in the best possible way
and i never want to be sober.
images aren’t mine
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