Proses with its Roses

&&. 19

&&.

i already have written hundred stories into my old, dusty notebook. most of them are tragic and when i met you, it pushed me to write hundreds more and you as my subject.

maybe, when i say that i'll write a story for someone, it sounds sweet but the truth is, it isn't. my stories were written under the deep ocean, there's more than what you think down below.

i never wrote happiness because my pen's blood came from the lake of unfulfilled promises and was kept inside the broken jars i used to break after you broke my heart.

you met me when i stopped writing. my uncovered wounds under my chest and wrists have healed already so i can't find the will to bleed in that moment.

you taught me how to write happy poems and proses. you never knew i'm into tragic stories too because you're too focused on the bright side of me. you never look on my miserable side, you ignored it.

having your hands intertwining mine while walking beneath the shouting moon made me love what love is. i never loved love, not until you came and let me experience it.

yet as you left without any word, all my wounds woke up and my heart fell asleep.  that dark, stormy night, i grabbed my pen again.

the lake of unfulfilled promises are starting to have its water again. the broken jars which remained unfixed is flowing with ink again. i smiled and began to stroke my pen. my friend named pain is here again.

believe me, when i tell you that i'll include you in my stories, that means you've hurt me already and you can finally leave.

now, leave since this is for you.