my pain was never easy
it never made beautiful couplets on a page.

instead my pain was danger,
it left me breathless and scared.
corners of my life lurked with shadows,
shadows of past experiences.
I prayed about it,
talked to a psychiatrist about it,
said a few chants about it
But my pain always knew how to enter
and take as it pleased.

my pain was never an aesthetic,
instead - it was me lying in blood stained sheets on a cold morning,
laying there while everyone continued their lives exploring.
my pain left me in bed,
with death tattooed down my left vein.

when sadness didn’t seem enough anymore,
my pain would ask for more.
it always demanded more,
& more is what i gave.