You have always been my favorite story.
The story of a girl, who held her dead mother,
All night and refused to let go even in the morning,
For she claimed, she was holding her last breath.
The story of a girl who just never knew
When to give up and to let go.
For you were a girl who tried to capture
From air to the petrichor,
Held onto his fingers like they were your
Only saviors and you couldn’t let go
Of them, could you?
You were a girl with weak heart and
Big words, that you used to make people stay,
Leaving your threshold before the sunrise,
And if that didn’t help, your lanky fingers
Crawling to their sides and back,
Knocking on the doors, you knew would never
Open, banging onto them, trying to make
A hole, you were so sure a finger would be enough.
A single touch could bring back, which never belonged
Here, and people might see you as a pathetic, daft
Girl, who could never feel the toxicity,
Could never get over an addiction,
But for me you were always a story of hope,
Of courage, and of strength.
Because some people like to hold onto things,
While some like to be held.