you told me that you were no work of art. just a blank canvas. but you were the only stardust that i could enter without doubts. you melted in my hands like paint. you’ve sewn skies in the blackest parts of me. you carry what you love inside and it lightens your eyes.
i told you i’m a galaxy of memories i do not want to keep. i’ve been teaching myself emptiness, wanted to unwrite every shred of my skin. wanted to become one of those blank canvases. i’m tired of being enclosed, dark-eyed and tense. there were the moments that made great poems. and then there are the restless ones that i don’t know how to let go of. there’s something beautiful and tragic in the fall down, you said to me. but there’s no pulse in my canvas. nothing that would remotely resemble summer nights and pastels. imagine curtains shuddering. imagine a heart calling out from a train station at midnight, love barely crawling. ghosts from a past life. this body of mine isn’t made to live in one place.
but i’ve been learning to keep the scratches in my canvas. i am an ocean muttering storms, raw and real. i’ve been learning a new meaning for without : without my scars , i would be nameless.