they say,
but I feel like I already did,
I still paint,
still write,
still speak,
still read,
but I think I lost at least a part of me,
the stable part,
the stronger one,
replaced by a void,
that leaves space for uncertainty,
anxiety,
panic,
a lingering silence,
that's tainted by sadness.

All my words must be pretty. And raw.
They must fall delicately on every reader’s lips.
And leave those of the subject swollen.
They must taste like a kiss.
To those who punches have received.
They must be bittersweet.
So you might remember just a bit.
They may be short and long.
So the poem may feel like a novel and a quote.
They must be true, and sincere.
To show my ambitions and my fears.
They must be written with love.
With calm and with rage.
They must squeak in your ear.
When they’re harsh but very real.
All my words must be pretty. And raw.
Like silence that stings.
Or screams that soothe.
They must breathe-
And bleed when spoken.
Be fragile as wings.
And sharp as what’s broken.
I give them to you. Pretty. And raw.