you said you would fix me and you did.

for a little while i was "fixed".

but then you decided that you didn't like that,
that you didn't like me,
and i was no longer okay.

i was no longer fixed.

i was broken again, only this time,
more than before.

agony for a week
pain for the next
but after a while you forget
and then it's like they were never there at all.

it seems like none of it happened
you were never apart of something like that
it all happened to someone else
so you shrug it away

and you haven't really lost something forever

some days i write poetry just to make another version of you;

a page compiled of nonsensical words
to stab someones heart,
leaving a scar with your name in bold.

a paragraph that can form your body,
the bends, the flaws,
the helpless hatred that i created,
the shameful love that id given to you.

a sentence, a word,
could create another you,
or at least a part of you,
an imitation through letters,
with illusions behind the meanings of contexts.

if you were a poem,
you could blind a person.

if you were a page compiled of words,
you could burn the hearts of those who came across you.

if you were a paragraph,
a simple sentence of words could easily puncture unguarded minds.

if you were a poem,
you could make a love built in the foundation of bones.

some days i write poetry just to make another version of you;

to burn the hearts of those who read it,
just like you did to mine.