I’m devoting the lines of this page to describe what it feels like I can’t. Once I do, it’ll start feeling real. It’ll become true. The corners of the room will pretend to understand when I start to feel like I’ve had enough. But there’s no comfort there; in those edges I will not fit because I’m not sharp like my pain. I am not only my pain. Not like you thought I was. I will not mold my heart, will not break my spine to comfort your eyes nor seal your wounds by making you the light in my sky, or taming my howl because you wanna be the sun when you’re really the moon. You won’t be there when I lift my head to the highest star. Asleep you will be in another sky, confusing someone else of what you really are. Convincing me that you could never disrupt my waves, but you were the force that ruptured my sea. Let me think that I was what you were. Confusing the pits of my bottomless oceanfloor, my love became endless and you still asked for more. I showed you what you really were, provided you with reflection and all along your grace was deceptive. I was the combination of all things that made you. Letting yourself fall in love with some Red Sea when your wounds were fresh, to death you’d bleed. Wrapped in your darkest dim, the walls of our world became sharp like my pain. You let me think it was my masterpiece even when you had persisted to take my calm from me. Now my waters are not still, and this place is but the master of my chains, I am not free. You were not the sun, you were always the moon. Watching over as your demons parted my seas, taking from me the healing that I needed to breathe. You ruptured my being, and now you’ve left my sky. Chaos in my blues. Tell me, how many bodies of water have you left to heave? I only sunk into myself. Waves of my ocean wish death upon the moon, so drown with me.
Hay que florecer 