Haemorrhage of the heart // things left unsaid ft.Journal pages
I would write his name in every cell,
A constellation mapped across my skin—
Give him the moon, the stars,
Whatever this world dare not grant me.
Oh, how the mind balks at such thoughts,
So delusional, so fevered, yet still—
I hold onto the ache like an ancient song,
A hymn carved into bones, waiting.
He says, “Go forward, unlatch the door,”
But he does not know
He left the lock broken,
My heart emptied and left ajar,
Swaying in the dark winds of devotion,
Each pulse a plea he’ll never hear.
Obsession? No, this is prayer,
A soul bent and bowed, head low to the earth,
The ache is endless, a quiet madness
Spilling through each brittle dawn.
And he, unaware of the altar I built,
Of the relics I keep in hidden journals,
Believes I will mend, fill my days with quiet tasks
That bear no trace of him—how naïve.
I have tried to hate, tried to pull back
Each ragged edge of longing,
But my heart rebels, my mind refuses.
How could I despise a name
That opens like a wound and blooms?
How could I scorn what’s carved
So deeply, with the precision of a blade,
Through the sinews of my own ghost?
Oh, I would shatter gladly if he willed it,
Burn as a fallen star, a silent offering.
This love is not gentle, not kind,
But a fierce, tender violence—
That I could turn against myself
For his shadow,
That I could cherish this breaking
As proof of a bond that cuts to the marrow.
How much dam can one soul hold?
How much ache must bleed before it quiets?
He, the walking poem, lives unfazed,
But I am undone, endless, infinite—
Bound in threads woven of blood and stardust,
And still, my hands reach, though I know not
If they will ever touch him again.
