Who knew trying to explain the self can be such a draining task?
Who placed the names to emotions and thoughts to writing, hoping for understanding?
Who would have thought that looking at bright red cabinet doors can still make you feel like crying if you are sad enough?
Who ate the family of poisonous mushrooms by the roadside that I was reserving for myself?
Who can take this careful heart and gently unknot it so that it can finally breathe?
It has been tiring.
What’s new anymore? I always come to this space to say that word.
Such a soft word. No pressure on the mouth to whisper it or spit it out. Laced with subtle melancholy, before falling back into the shadows.
Speaking of shadows and eight-hour darkness and the blacks-and-blues, I do not like to pick fights and try to avoid the confrontational approach as much as I can.
If you think I enjoy drawing blood, then maybe you never knew me right from the moment you said, “hello.”
Maybe I am too big an Universe for you under thin skin and stubborn bones.
Pause. Breathe. Swallow.
I am speaking from the heart, and not with sarcasm, defence mechanisms and shameless facades.
I do that a lot.
I hide to survive; to know who to trust and avoid the temporary spirits.
And that makes me wonder who I really am if I peeled off all these layers and stood under the Sun.
I have almost everything in order, except matters of the heart. And that’s the most painful part.
May the Moon cradle me for long nights.