I always wanted someone to love me as they would love a poem,
that’s written right from heart,
the heart that pounds when eyes meet,
the heart that weighs pounds, carrying sorrow and sadness.
You know how hard it is to write poems?
about life that is like a broken bridge,
about birth that always has ends,
about the death that has cries and mourns,
about love that has no perfect definition,
about happiness that keeps fading away like a cresent moon.
I failed to realise the fact that every spring follows autumn,
I never knew that a garden full of hugs, kisses and cuddles would soon be a barren land, loosing everything bit by bit.
If I look back, at the past, at the days I lived for others,
I drown in the guilt of choosing the wrong ones.
Love is blind, they say, I can’t deny, it blinded me so much that I put me down and down, making me drown in the ocean of fakeness.
When they say that all the love you give to wrong people come back to you, they instilled hope for the first time in life,
I had to think twice, thrice or infinite times to fall in love again,
should I make myself more vulnerable to heartbreaks and heartaches?
I survived those hard times with high doses of caffeine and sleep,
I spent hours of analysing, reasoning, ruminating about all the holes that I failed to fix.
There was someone who stayed all the way,
in ups and downs,
when life unveiled the worser sides of itself,
when people abandoned,
when my veins grew fragile
carrying blood that’s heavy with grief,
when everything collapsed.
It was me, it was my flesh, my 206 bones (few fractured yet holding each one strong and tight).
It is okay to still be putting yourself together, I say to myself.
To say ‘I love you’ one must first know how to say “I”,
I didn’t know to love myself and they didn’t know to love me.
I gently picked up the shriveled petals of my heart and fixed it with resins of kindness,
in the process of fabricating the first chapter of life, I found a book within, waiting for a reader.
You know what the hell love feels like?
Never better and beautiful than self-love.
I began to love myself not in the hope that I’ll be loved by someone else on someday,
but to believe that,
“there is way out, the way is sometimes within, hidden and concealed, visible to the right ones.
go find your book.
I wrote this in February and is very close my heart since I began performing poems with this piece.
Thank you so much for reading! ❤️