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.
