If God takes away all your pain,
how will you write your poems?

i don't miss you anymore
i don't cry at nights
i sleep well
nothing haunts me--
not your unsaid goodbye,
not your unmeant love-talks,
not what i did, not what you didn't,
nothing.
i don't go back to read your texts
nor do i look at your photo a hundred times
i do not, simply do not care anymore where you are,
what you do, and if you slept peacefully at night.
it doesn't matter now to me. what i went through is history.

people so passionate,
their hearts thrumming against their chests
as new ideas play their flutes
and the visions of their imagined golden outcomes
lift their feet to the skies.
dreams
gleam in their eyes
and words fall from their mouths so easily: the earth is their pillow.
they need not fear the world because the world fears them.
while i,
on the other end,
put my head on my knees and cry by the unknowing river
because the butterfly i had once sheltered in the cave of my stomach
has died of dark and doesn’t flutter.

He was writing me.

And then he decided
that he doesn't want to write me anymore.

So there I was left, hanging;
a rope tightened around my neck: forever choking,
and my feet dangling from the ceiling.

I didn't know what to do because I had no ending.

I want my words to be beautiful.
Beautiful like yours.
I want to see ordinary things,
Find the magic in them,
And put the magic on a page, for everyone to understand.

I want to have a way with words.
I want every poem of mine
To become a masterpiece.
Just like yours.

I am not broken.

But you are.

You see the world through pain,
And pain makes the colors brighter.
It makes the value of feelings
Climb higher.

Sometimes I wonder
If I should be broken like you
If I want my words to resonate
Like yours.

Sometimes I wonder,
If it will be truly worth it
In the end.

I wonder what it will be like,
To cut myself up to pour out the beauty inside me.

Just like you.

I imagine that you
Raise the blade
Slice your feelings open
And write your masterpiece
In red.