i speak broken english. my mouth twists like knotting ropes on my throat. you think it is beautiful to have my tongue tied, to have my lips tinted with blood from the wounds of my words, or to have my mouth open as if to welcome the sweetness on your tongue.
you enjoy yourself as i sing flowers and stars with my hands wrapping a pen. you enjoy witnessing my words dance on pages of my notebook, caressing them with your fingers just like how you touch your girls or love them – the kind i will never feel from you.
i use my hands to tell you stories about my garden, from how i started planting to today that it seems like an unvisited forest. i use my eyes too to water the flowers and trees and stream it like rivers and falls. my tears can make flood out of you, honey. it’s just your breath that drifts away every storm my words make.
but my words are the whole planet. there is chaos in every beauty. there is darkness in every light. and there is evil in every kindness. and you, sweetheart, you are every positive thing in this planet. you are the kindness, the light, and the beauty.
i speak broken english. my mouth withers with words i try to give birth using my pen. my fingers grow blisters as i try to endure pain from my chest or as i try to conceal it with flowery phrases that could help mend the wounds, the ache, and the nightmares.
i speak broken english. i try harder and harder and harder with my feet standing aboveground on this labyrinth my mother warned me about. it’s a maze you will never escape, she told me. but as i saw the sunset on your eyes, i told myself to keep giving birth of words after words after words until i reach your foreign heart.