I would like to call myself a writer.
Everything in my life feels much brighter
when I put down what I’m feeling inside.
My chest caves with the weight of emotions,
and words it wants to let go.
I’ve always been incapable of not writing about your presence, your disappearance, the dark times,
and all of your heartbreaking crimes.
The only proof of them left behind being the invisible scars on my mind.
You’re a constant thought in my brain,
marking me like a red wine stain.
The only thing i’m sure of is that my hands will always turn every letter of every word i let go into a shadow of you.
And that’s the reason why yet again,
it’s you whom I dedicate this poem to.
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