"Have I lost my own essence, trying to keep my lovers close?" I caught myself wondering on an almost normal Tuesday night while looking out, trying to reach the moon with my fingers. I asked myself, "What is it about being loved that makes me tear out pieces of my soul to make space for their piece to be placed on my palms for me to add on my rag quilt of a heart?” It's like I give my pieces out to my passerby's and guests like it is candy that sometimes sticks for long enough to make me less of myself and more of themselves.
Maybe inside my heart I do anticipate for them to leave me with their mess to carry so that I have an empty heart but never an empty poetry, and each time after my hand tries to pronounce their name on my sheets, it erupts out in elegies that will never run out until the time their blue washes out off my rag quilt of a heart.
