If I were emotional,
I'd be a poet.
If I were a poet,
I'd write about emotion.
If I wrote about emotion,
I'd write about broken hearts.
If I wrote about broken hearts,
I'd write about pain.
If I wrote about pain,
I'd write about healing.
If I wrote about healing,
I'd write about mended hearts.
If I wrote about mended hearts,
I'd write about joy,
but if I wrote about joy,
I wouldn't be a poet.
there is a certain time of night
that every song on the static radio
makes me cry,
and i want to break my skin
and pull you back in again.
and it is then
and only then
that the loveliest memories
strangle my lungs,
and i remember
sobbing into your pillow at 3am
because i felt so alone,
and you turned out the lights
and held me close
and hummed
“you
are
my
sun-
shine”
until i could breathe again.
and i swear i would be fine
if that night could be tonight.
but no,
here i am,
alone and alive,
and i don’t have a place
in your head or in your bed,
so let me share with you instead
these lessons i've learned in regret.
you took the suitcase by brokenfragilethings, literature
Literature
you took the suitcase
i'm trying to
act the same as usual, but
you're beautiful and
i'm broken, and
it's not easy being okay when
i'm the only one who
came out of this
in pieces.