In how many ways can you break my heart?
You surely know more than one.
And how many times can you stomp it sore?
You surely can do more.
How many times can you beat it blue?
Till my heart bleeds dry,
Until I forget you?
Sometimes sadness fills you up and the emptiness vanishes,
You’re friends with the wounding silence,
And tears do not seem like something you shed out of mere hope
That once this ordeal passes by, you’ll be fine.
But tears turn into the despondence of the one who has given up all hope,
And is no longer anxious, no longer worried, hence no longer concerned about the sorrow
Because, sometimes when sadness fills you, you do not feel hollow anymore,
And that’s a beautiful gift even joy can’t give.
It’s the sole saving grace that lets me breathe, every passing moment, breathe, a free, independent, breath, taking away the sorrowful rain that drenches me every night and birthing love that is buried deep within my soul, love that is asleep in an unshakable slumber of ache and all the things so ugly and beautiful and insane.
I write… to save me from myself.