god, don’t give me the ideal.
i have lived here too long.
now i can’t seem to love
anyone who is not a bit mean,
who doesn’t bite back.
i seem to only have the appetite
for unsure feelings.
i can only tolerate to hug
something that is breaking,
a breaking that nothing can stop or change.
and on the nights when i became aware
of my own faults and the end it is leading to,
i could only stop crying
because i was hugged back
by a faulty product of your factory .
thank you for breaking this world,
for breaking me
so slowly and so beautifully.
the broken stories that you lived on
were never actually broken.
these stories are not pieces of a whole,
but a whole that is meant to look like a piece.
they are made so.
they are crafted to be faulty, to look like us,
to look like the things we want to be but aren’t.
so that it can fit into our heart,
so that we can nibble on it
with our tiny dry mouth
that has given up on food, love, and life.
The wave that ran towards me,
filled me with fear,
turned out to be nothing.
It didn’t even reach me.
The demons I saw in my future
turned out to be nothing like I thought of.
I kept you away.
I suffered in vain.
My life with you could have a paradise,
if only I didn’t fear life so much.