It took from me
Chipped away bit by bit
Drained me… well, almost completely.
Yes, I’m not whole
But I’m still art

Cracked canvas
Worn edges
Colors bled into corners
Where joy used to sleep

They see the ruin
But miss the strokes
They touch the scars
But not the story

I am the gallery of everything I survived
Every tear; a brushstroke
Every silence; a signature
Every goodbye; an unfinished line

No, I’m not whole
But wholeness was never the goal
I was meant to be a masterpiece of endurance
A mosaic of moments that didn’t **** me

So let them stare
Let them call it pain
I call it process

I call it proof
That beauty lives
Even in what’s been broken

Today
when my friends asked after you
I froze
not the kind of freeze that chills the skin
but the kind that paralyzes memory
I stared blank like a cursed cursor on an unsaved page
a heart buffering
because how do you respond to a question
that tastes like salt in an open wound

I thought to say you’re fine
that we talked last night
that you laughed the way you used to
like the moonlight wasn't so far out of reach
I thought to paint a picture that never existed
hold up my fantasy like a canvas in the Louvre of lies

But that would be a lie; wouldn’t it?
That would be me playing God with truth
molding fiction from the clay of my denial
That would be me feeding poison to my peace
me...
serving myself self-sabotage on a silver plate
as if my soul wasn’t already choking on unpaid debts
and unanswered prayers

So I said nothing
Nothing  because silence is safer than make-believe
Nothing  because I’d rather be empty
than full of stories I made up to stay afloat

And when they laughed
when they said
“C’mon bro; it ain’t that deep”
I looked them
dead in the eye and said...
Don’t ask me silly questions
Don’t ask me about ghosts I’m still haunted by
Don’t bring up her name like it’s not a spell
like it won’t summon all the soft places I bled in silence

Don’t ask me how she is
when I’m still figuring out how I am
without her

Because you see
you can’t ask the sun
how the eclipse feels

You can’t ask the wound
to describe the blade

And you can’t ask me
the boy she left behind
to tell you anything true
when I’m still trying to write the ending
in a language my heart doesn’t speak yet

So no;
don’t ask me if she’s fine
Don’t ask me if I’m okay
Don’t ask me anything that starts with “Did you two”
because we didn’t
We almost did
But almost never heals
Almost is the name of every poem I wrote for her
that never ended with “goodbye”

So I told them
don’t ask me silly questions
unless you’re ready for honest answers
wrapped in broken metaphors
and bleeding metaphysics

Because the only truth left between us
is the one I whisper in poems
that no one will ever read

It's a fact for me,
I can only get things out,
when the sad songs play.

As the time ticks by,
I can't promise but I'll try,
to blue up your sky.

I cry tears of joy,
when I see your dreams come true.
My dream realized.