You’re a poem
I do not want to ever write
because what does it mean
writing about you when we‘ll belong to
ourselves, but never to each other?
But I want to write about you.
Month: March 2020
10
And of things that break and have broken my heart:
1. Lovers who didn’t understand what staying meant
2. fractured hairlines not amenable to cast
3. my country, and her unwillingness to act her age
9. why it does it hurt?
Does it hurt because they left
Or because the spaces between your fingers
Have grown cold from lack of touch?
8
where did we learn
to scream when in pain
or to moan
out of pleasure?
Why was our first instinct
out of our mothers
to cry?
7. Deciding what should hurt
I’ve been seeking comfort in words
Offering my open skin to them
To rip further apart
Because this is how I’d rather bleed
6.
the human body
so much activity one minute
everything going mute the next
so full of wonder
to not have come from
somewhere
a creator
5. “happiness is a journey, not a destination”
1. Are you happy? I’ve been asking myself this for sometime now. And the surprising realization is I’m just okay. I’m stuck somewhere between not being sad and not being totally happy. And maybe that’s okay too.
2. So while I may not be completely happy, I’m glad I’m where are I am. I no longer wake up with a dark cloud over my head, like I did last summer. And I think that counts for something. Maybe someday I’ll believe this quote: “ happiness is journey, not a destination. ”
4. you’re my home
my german friend asked
how we said home in our native language
your name was all my tongue could carry
this is how I know I want you
3. they used to be
they were two people
who were convinced their hearts
were in sync till they weren’t
these were two people who
used to talk
not just with words, but
with their bodies
and what will they not give
to find this rhythm their hearts once shared
2. can’t find the words
i have looked for the words
in all the places i am sure to find them,
like i even know how to make a home for them
i have tried to birth metaphors
out of these hardships; to fit
joy and laughter in these spaces,
without pain begging to matter too
i just do not write anymore.
Poetry 