PoetryWhore

A poem begins as a lump in the throat, a sense of wrong, a homesickness, a lovesickness.

I loved you on this day. I love this memory.

My lips and fingers were pens on her flesh. / I memorized her in every alphabet and memorized my memories until they multiplied...

I feel as if I were rising from a grave,

(your face is my chosen abyss)

If you asked me now who I am, the only answer I could give with any certainty would be my names. For the rest: my loves, my hates, down even to my deepest desires, I can no longer say whether these emotions are my own, or stolen from those I once so desperately wished to be.

And sometimes I have kept my feelings to myself, because I could find no language to describe them in.

This is my last message to you: in sorrow, seek happiness.

I'm lost. And it's my own fault. It's about time I figured out that I can't ask people to keep me found.

I couldn't see the point of getting up. I had nothing to look forward to.

I am not actually tired, but numb and heavy, and can't find the right words.

I am so fucking tired and sad and lost.

Human existence is so fragile a thing and exposed to such dangers that I cannot love without trembling.

I would give you back to yourself if I could-

The books that the world calls immoral are books that show the world its own shame.

Allow me to feel my pain,

When love is not madness it is not love.