I can't always see you.
I can’t always taste you.
I can't always hear you.
I know you are always there.
I know you are slowly killing me.

5 years later—
I still wanna be me.
more a listener,
minus anxiety.
5 years later—
I still wanna have a room,
with a big glass window
where I keep my feelings on display
in the highest floor of a skyscraper,
to catch more of sunlight
so I don’t have anymore trouble
to be more opened up.
5 years later—
I wanna read myself better
and be more careless about people.
kids might be an option,
but I still wanna share the bed with my cat.

In case no one gets it,
i collect my excerpts
better
than i spell my prayer.
Spills my personal feelings
and trouble,
longer than i bow
on my knees.

i memorize every shame
and quote it
in a piece of paper,
the same stroke
they did to break
my bones.
Marks down
every of their tone
when i got yelled at,
being degraded.

In case no one gets it,
i use my fingertips to fight.
Being sure of my words,
but never myself.

They can take off my guts,
break down my sanity
into pieces of insecurity.
Yet i’m here to remain bold
until the last spill of ink,
and my pen
can no longer stand.

My soul spoke to me but I didn't write
I didn't cos I felt the time wasn't right
When I was ready, I couldn't write
Cos I couldn't remember what I was told to write

What a loss