I romanticize pain,
like it’s some kind of movie,
like it’s a fate
I live for.
no love,
still quiet —
like I’m longing for the sea
but afraid of water.
afraid of life,
so I get moldy inside.
no flowers,
just death.
birds cannot fall —
it hurts
more than a bee sting.
but I’m used to it.
the cut that always bleeds,
the cut you opened once
but can’t close now,
the cut
you have to live with.