I have got myself into illnesses
I never knew of.
Been in so much pain
I couldn’t be sane of.
Grew fonder of it,
imprisoned it,
to fill the dark hole
I wasn’t aware of.
It isn’t random
that I got myself
into this mess.
Went through multitudes
of suffering and grief.
Bent my bones
to grip their bonds,
knocking the windows
of their soft spot.
Stood at the windows,
no one followed.
Went back to my sorrows,
clinging on to their marrows.
I am writing —
it is their doing.
Their callousness
caused this blessing.
I wonder —
do I resent them
for torturing me,
or do I appreciate
the talent
they’ve blessed me with?