You know this story. Everybody does.
It’s the desperate, always running from yourself story.
At night, I wake up without remembering who I am, but thinking about all the things that I’ve lost. Heavy breathing, hands on the edge of my sternum. Hands that soothe, hands capable of ruining.
I was always in that place , right between healed and bruised. There was a fine line and I failed to cross it – I did not want to cross it. The world was soft and fragile that I couldn’t stand the thought of loving one more thing, of making someone else capable of tearing me apart, of waking me up in the middle of the night, disheartened with worry.
I could’ve made art out of the knots in my hair, hung to poetry until I turned into soft silk. Open my ribs and dream of clears skies. Light is so much easier to love. But I wanted ruin, I wanted sin. Tell me about the nightmares you’re having night after night, about the places you weren’t sewn up quite right. I crave for the silence of your ghosts. They speak to mine. After all, everyone says that Rome was built on ruins.
Somebody asked me why I keep holding unto that. But how can I let it all go ?