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The tenderness has given me more cuts than holding a knife. The gentle breeze has done more destruction to my swings than the fierce blow of storm ever did. I'm terrified of myself — waiting for something which ain't going to happen. The persistence makes me weak, hollow eyed staring at the texts I sent you on July 15th. All the letters I wrote with sweet rhymes were written with blood in my eyes.

I clutch my chest, it's beating with thunder strikes, all my memories leaking from the cracks of my conscience. There's a softness to the tragedy, always felt more inclined to the reality though bitter. The happy endings are like stitches over a deep wound — temporary fixation but the infection will soon occur making the reality more bitter and harder to bear. I cruise over the past almost all the time I breathe, I never learnt to live in the moment. My feet are here in the ground but my mind is lingering in 2022 by the months I used to have those two gems by my side. I'm always half dead, weeping over events already passed by. The air is thick with my sadness, the room is dull ; covered navy blue and the flowers I grew have withered away.

My memory holds a house of four walls but tongue too hesitant to call it home. The love makes the corridors lively — is a empty house still the heart of God? The old lady I met once uttered a truth : loving is a sword, at times your saviour and at times the one to slaughter your neck. The statement has always poisoned my head, as to why she spoke the words with a shivering voice? I've loved the people too much, on a superficial level. When you do something, you know the antidote, how to undo the  mechanical miracle but I never did.

My sunshine was casted away, my shine too poisonous, they claimed. Binds the sight, minds are devil's rolling ground when darkened. Scoffing they spit, how everyone's favourite is just a misfit, but how I'll be everyone's favourite when you're here hating the past i couldn't leave. Call me out, drag me to the town centre, said even my genuine efforts couldn't save another dying relationship. Doesn't it conclude that I ain't a eye candy for the masses. Self defeating, self loathing, the colours too pale to witness.

I've loved and loved and loved more and more and never once done less than it, but I didn't even receive a shred in trade for it.

the scars are e v e r m o r e
but I hope the last moment
I b r e a t h e
would you be to l i v e and
not survive another war.