Lightning lives
between your fingers,
flashing silver inside
a handful of night

suturing blood
with exigence
through a needle’s eye,

with one hand kissed
by a shower of shrapnel
and the other twisted
in an infinite thread

tunneling light with
sublime precision.

Your needle
closes each gap open
with the cloth of Love
being woven

and each gap closed
holds me in this
lancinating tension,

as I slumber deep  
in the currents of
your halcyon arms,

this world remains
tender and unbroken.

I wrote to you to speak,
I don’t know if out of love,
or so you would reject me.

I wrote to you with love,
but in a negative way,
inviting disaster.

A disaster that would hurt me,
that would punish me.

Because she didn’t love me,
because she didn’t know how to love me.

I felt alone,
but I also didn’t let
anyone accompany me.

It seems I hurt myself,
because I was the first
to reject myself.

A wound marks me,
from a distant time,
which over time
had only been reaffirmed.

I did something foolish,
to harm myself,
and guilt placed me in your hands.

I did something foolish,
I invalidated myself,
so that you could love me.

I did something foolish,
a kind of
self-sabotage.

I did something foolish,
as if handing you the power
to hurt me.
Without response,
without defense,
hoping to wake up.

I sacrificed myself for your validation,
giving you everything,
without ever finding you.

Since I didn’t see
what I was hoping for,
I gave even more.

I repeated the cycle
so many times, to extremes,
affecting your interest
and causing emotional exhaustion.

Creating dependence
on your love,
as if mine didn’t matter.

I surely criticized myself,
surely devalued myself,
surely waited for you to leave
to release this burden.

I let you dominate me,
I didn’t say what hurt me,
so you wouldn’t leave for another.

I accepted unfair conditions,
prioritizing your desires,
never seeing my own,
accumulating resentment.

I no longer knew who I was,
I lost everything of myself,
I didn’t love myself,
nor could I be loved.

I didn’t allow myself to move forward,
I didn’t allow myself to love you,
this fear running through my veins
didn’t allow me to find you.

I will no longer open my heart to anyone,
I stop searching for you,
I don’t want to hurt myself again.

Deep inside my heart,
I knew this wound
could be healed.

It is just a small wound,
one for which I am responsible.

My great love, I will find you,
my favorite girl,
when I finally learn to love myself.

My great love, I will find you,
to play like children,
to have a healthy love.

silence that fills
an empty room
no people left,
just memories.
their fights, their screams
and that first kiss.

they both poured from their empty cups
they broke the cup
and gave the glass

and piece by piece,
and stitch by stitch,
their love has morphed
into deep pain
just open wounds
that bleed in vain

it was too hard,
for them to see
the masochists
they came to be.

It happens with all the holes and wounds: they grow their own face, mend their gap, heal their rifts - those new skills of yours are but entities that emerge: to give shelter, to stand guard, replace the old, thicken the crust, weather this human storm - through and through.

But will the skin ever return to its soil? It linger on forevermore.
How tight is its grip? How hardened its sappy brooks? When will it nourish those delicate roots anew?

These thoughts arise as doubt breaks free. It pours and flows as I gaze down and lower still. Shadows seep and leak as the wheel spins and drills the soul evermore hollow. Anonymous is our tree of life, but it keeps faces in store.

For it happens with all the holes and wounds: they bleed, they mend, they heal - and what don't they do as I stand here, as I bend, as I kneel - as I carve their seats in shapes of departure. These skills thicken under my feet like growling tremors.

My past was but a dream - ready to slide and crumble like a leaf.
My weariness is universal. My knowledge, heavy. There cannot be a conclusion. I am growing thin.

Let me feed those roots anew.

I bent my mind like a bamboo tree to experience the fragrance of her soul, and in return, I received a bouquet of flowers sprinkled with the earthly happiness of love. She opened her rosy heart for me to smell and share until the rain as soft as tears, wiped the imprints away forever. Even the splash of golden sunlight, trying daily to flood the void of my stolen heart, could not succeed, for the wound was larger than anything that could heal.

Petals fall and fade,
heart once bloomed socked in the rain,
wounded heart still ached.