I guess I’ll never know
what makes the three letters
of your name seem so special
that they make my heart
skip numerous beats
whenever I see them
all around me—
carved on trees,
posted on walls,
I’d act as if it was a call-
that somewhere, somehow,
you miss my aching soul.

And I’d carefully write you down,
spilling ink on any paper—
as if you were a prayer
I’ll never learn to speak.

All you are
is what makes me
want you more,
all you are
is radical.

If you were a flower
I wouldn’t mind staring at you
from time to time, and watch
you grow, and maybe
shed a few petals;
for I know you’ll still
remain as lovely as can be.

If you were a flower
I wouldn’t pick you up
and see you slowly die
in my arms; I would let you
be, just like how your
smile was made for
the world to see—
"here I am, here I am,
you belong with me.”

If you were a flower
and if I were a butterfly;
I’d stay away, as far as
possible; for I know
I wouldn't be bold enough
to come closer,
nearer, nearer;
to know if you would need me
just as badly as I need you.

I try so hard to pick up the pace you’re in;
but you end up setting fire all around
just so I could feel your pain.

you smoke cigarettes behind the courtyard
once you told me  you’ve stopped;
all your cryptic words confuse me,
causing my mind to drop.

Here’s to all your mistakes
piled to become your
biggest regret-

I could never rest my heart
not knowing where
yours truly lie.

You know me well enough to realize that I am no longer
a fan of love stories and happy endings,
and sunrise; and foreseeing the future with a lover by my side.

I even write poems for all the lovers I lost;
and counting—
As I carelessly held them like pebbles in my hand.
Until I am left with none.

I take notes of all my frustrations,
All my fears and all the demons
I encounter in my sleep;
And write them down,
As if they are gems I needed
To keep.

And in the end we all look for someone just as broken
as we are; for we all want less
broken souls around us; that’s when I found you.

I found your loving eyes
across the dimly-lit room;
You opened me up when
nobody could.

This is no longer a poem
of a girl crying out for help;
this is a poem of a girl
who found a home in you.

Please, take time to see through me;
see through my skin.
Am I enough now?
Am I what you need?

Please, stop running away
and breathe me all in;
until nothing’s left of me.
Do I make you feel alive?
Or do I make you bleed?

Never have I screamed so loud
to be noticed, my dear, I’m usually
the type who goes away;

But let’s just
put it this way:

I am merely a flower
you never bothered to pick;
because there are others
more pleasant
and less broken
than me.