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Grief made me humble more than love ever did.

Grief, in its heavy mercy, will grant you a brief amnesia—letting you forget its weight for a little while, before it inevitably remembers you. Forever.

But sadly, you don't remember Grief. It remembers you.

But sadly, you don't remember Grief. It remembers you. Even if you strive to overlook it.

Grief is a circle with temporary checkpoints of love, joy and happiness.

Grief is a circle.

It all has to end with me. The Generational trauma, the Childhood trauma, the chaos, the sorrow. I can't let it carry me anymore. It has to have an end.

And if I ever break before you, and my pieces make your hands bleed with fresh blood, know that it's only you who I chose to undress myself for.

Of course we all are strong people, of course we all are daredevils, unafraid. But then what's the point of having someone if you can't be weak for a while in front of them? What's the point if you have to pretend to be strong all the time when all you've ever wanted was just to break in their arms like glass and they would slowly pick each piece of you, one by one and carefully assemble them for you.

But wasn't I supposed to be loved as a child? Dear Mother & Father—what's the use of this affection now? I am already done begging people outside for this.

But I had to do something with this pain. It felt never enough giving away myself to people who only emptied me where I almost died to sleep. I had to do something with this chaos brewing up into a whirlwind within myself.

But how can poets end up with their muse?

At what distance should I stand from you so that you are bound to move your feet whenever you extend your arms towards me?

But Father, weren't you supposed to protect me from men who never loved me? But why is it that men who never loved me make me remember about you?

It's always childhood—where things began, where things ended. It's all about childhood. Everything else is just the reflection.

Sacrifice has a shape. It's my mother's face.