I guess I will never know why I feel so broken without ever fully breaking- maybe I cracked without ever knowing.
When I am wide awake at six in the morning. Crying. Screaming. Signing compromises written to you. [I am trying to love the fuck out of you, ok?]
We burn bridges likes we built them, and you’re the fucking earth and I’m the spell-bound, hell-bent fish that crawled out of the ocean and taught itself how to breathe.
When you read my poetry, you think I’m a tragedy. A guitar with broken strings, singing the tunes of life without a melody. But don’t. Don’t look at me like that, with pity. Because I’m more than the tears shed in the comfort of my home. I’m grateful for my past. It turned me into a sculpture that one day, people will marvel at; a second Renaissance in the modern world. I’m more than the backs that turned on me.
A paper plane that crashed and burned. I’m the colors that no one dares to touch, a ridiculous ensemble of neon pink, electric blue, deep purple. My hands may tremble and my lips may tighten like clenched fists. But I can still build skyscrapers, bring down planets and galaxies – fill the world with a supernova of just twenty-six letters. I’m a field of thorns that grew from a bouquet of roses, my own knight in shining armor – a modern fairytale. My voice might shake but my words are war-paint that I use to etch my name. My heart is a gallery under renovation, but my teeth are bloody, sharp, ready to carve stories.
I’m a forever that will live in between the lines of songs and manuscripts and poetries and –
And, So fucking what?
Maybe I’m a little broken, maybe I’m a little fucking crazy, but – I’m not a goddamn Shakespearean tragedy. I’m a yet to be published dystopian fantasy.