If my skin could unfold, then maybe you would see the scars etched on my flesh like ink. Perhaps you would understand why for so long it feels like I have been running, away from myself...toward myself...and for a cause as inexplicable as the sadness that burrows its way inside me.
But since you cannot see these marks left on me, I can show you. How the world tore me apart, broke my heart, and left me as nothing but a vessel of poetry. And I am not complaining, as it is the most colorful thing that has ever happened to me, but then again, the profundity of my sorrow is just as perpetual.
Slowly, I am learning to pick up the pieces, and sometimes I wonder if there are others out there with trenches in their soul. The world tries to convince me that I am not alone, and that pain could be beautiful, and at one point I think I made it a friend instead of a souvenir. I hold on to it, I listen to it, I hug it, and write about it.
I don't know where to begin and even if I do, I would just weave through the words until I get to my most favorite bits. The part where my skin crumbled, when my bones shattered, when I heard the sounds of the glass and the horror that this might not be it. That perhaps there might be more, that the world could still get crueler.
Still, I want to trace where it started, I want you to feel it. While this might not be the most heartbreaking story you've read, I'm holding onto the hope that maybe, it might turn out even better. That we both get to find out how it looks on the other side. There might be rainbows, there might be snow, but there still might be a storm.
After all, I have always had a love-hate relationship with happy-ever-afters...
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