A very good friend of mine once told me that I sought meaning in everything, that I found melancholy intoxicating. She said we are like complete opposites, but what she does not know I also share some of her traits.
I bled through the words I could not utter, stranded on oh-so-many-nights I wish I was dead. I sculpted my pain among the stanzas and strangers’ bed. I craved their wandering hands on my naked skin, mapped every inch of it, and let them make a shelter out of the shattered pieces, but what she does not know, I still sit alone with loneliness sleeping softly on my lap, he often brings a backpack full of doubts, and stories about the almost lovers. What she does not know, as heavy as it seems, there is a haunting peaceful feeling every time he is around, knowing he couldn’t hurt me more than just being with him.
What she does not know, I still seek meaning in everything, asking big questions, that no one has the answer of, and I still find melancholy very much intoxicating, that I often wander to the what-ifs world, discovering the what should have been and could have been. What she does not know, that I am too in a constant battle to tear down the invisible walls I’m surrounded with.