When it comes to the world,
I'm a preterm baby—
I know nothing
of tales, adventures,
treachery, or wisdom.

I watch
with hooded, glazed eyes
that only understand
fragments—
splinters
of ideas.

So when I got a glimpse,
it wasn’t something
a cradle-bound soul
could ever decipher.

It's the justification of just—
It’s never just a papercut.
And it wouldn’t be.
It’s never I’m fine.
And it wouldn’t be.

My baby self
is allowed to throw a fit.
I think
every other version
should too.

But I’m only a preterm.
What do I know?

I wish you were different
I wish you weren’t that successful or that charming
I wish you were just an ordinary boring guy
So loving you won’t be hard & leaving you won’t be even harder
I admit it i was mean, cruel & a heart breaker
I ended us before we even started
I was naïve, afraid & hesitant
Panicking that things won’t work out
Denying -for the first time in my life- all of my senses and beliefs
I denied that feeling although it was so real,
that i felt as if my soul was breathing for the first time
Refreshing, real & euphoric
As if it was the first breath of a preterm born,
His life was on edge
And was given a chance to live
To be unconditionally loved
To be genuinely cared for
So mr. genuine, are we over, yet?