you often wonder why they think you're a woman of subtlety who feeds herself tiny delicacies and morning teas. why don't you ever look like you would bend the shape of the sun with your bare hands and crack your sharp edged bones then discover you're actually just a mess falling apart. you ponder why they think your eyes resemble the rays of sunbeam and why you look too intricate, how your skin sheers into patient clouds. but they never know, heaven is not what your body needs. they think you can tame your unyielding rage and hold them on your palms, keep them in your pocket until they grow a field of constellations. but they never really know, you keep no stars in your casket because you die with them. they never know, you're a woman of grimace and calamity. nothing less. nothing more.
her shadows soon learned how to weep in the dark. she clothes herself with sorrow yet humans told her that her scars are exquisite. for they never really know how they were made; let me tell you how she created her swelling grief and worshipped enough gods for a home that doesn't hurt, see the wreath she's trying to press on this stark white sheet of paper? because she ran out of skin to write on. out of love. out of capillaries. have you ever seen her without poetry, without verses, and without the dainty appearance she shows? have you ever witnessed the most somber part of her? have you discovered what she keeps beneath the flesh? have you watched with trembling knees, when she's nothing but a crying mess? if so, unweave her heart carefully and remove all the poets under her skin, see how she's nothing but a mere wound.
—
a.