And just like that, dear,
I pulled the knives from my heart
And let the scars heal.

There I stood in Your mercy,
A single star in an ocean of galaxies
and yet
I knew
I was loved.

Do not cry, my dear. You see, men like him chase dimming stars, the most visible, blinking ones: flashing, burning, dying. Unstable.
But you are strong.
You are far too bright,
far too precious to be consumed.

Men like him are blinded by your light—fear it even. It pierces their void and makes them question.

So do not mimic the flashing.

Do not mimic the dying.

Do not waste your power—
your precious stardust—
on someone who does not value your light.

You ring in my ears.
A blinding, deafening shriek
of perfect, kind words

Frozen shackles bind me
Come, seek, and find me.
Melt the chains which imprison
My inner being,
My everything
folded in these pages.

Shatter the cages
Where pieces of soul rest.

Fill the void in this chest
And free me.

Only when read,
Black and white words are bled
Scarlet.

Time: but an illusion.

I stand before the endless ticking,
counting broken moments
and call them "seconds"

but each one seems like the first.

Following the weak rhythm of heartbeat
until it is strong again,

until the pain fades,

till the sands of this illusion
bury you out of sight.

I want to look at you
to prove to myself that it’s okay;
I won’t turn to stone.

To prove to myself
that even if these
open wounds burn,
I won’t bleed out.

To prove to myself
that the blur of color
at the edge of my sight
is not the world
bleeding into itself,
but only my eyes watering.

Funny isn’t it?
How one can be
the knife, the wound,
and the salt
all at once?

I just want to speak to you
not because you deserve my words
or the satisfaction,

but to tell you that after everything
(although "everything" was "nothing")

I’m glad it was you.