Sanctuary [Poetry]

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"I did not feel the pain myself, but I've felt yours."

And I know how much it hurts:

Like a bullet making its way to your heart in slow motion; as if to emphasize that it doesn't need to be sharp to cause damage, that all it takes is a better timing and impact—noticeable enough for you to bleed.

And then it will pierce your skin open; like those flowers you witnessed blooming in the dawn, morning dew gliding smoothly, until it drops, until all it leaves is a beauty of something ethereal.

But blood isn't beauty, much more of an injury we couldn't see, of a struggle we often failed to notice; pain is not delicate but crazily numbing.

We're just nurtured in a way that enduring means strength, and strength means surviving. But survival itself isn't living—

You exist enough to breath, but not enough to actually call yourself alive. You're highly tolerant of becoming someone, by not becoming yourself.

You're highly tolerant of the pain, as if being ripped open is just another day passing, like it's just another episode of normalcy—much to the point that bleeding is categorized as winning in a battle where you didn't list yourself in.

But a heart teared so well it's unrecognizable is never fine; a broken mind is never fine—no matter how much people see you well dressed, with your hair combed to perfection, and your smile shining and a laugh so melodically...

Your eyes can never lie. The scars on your skin you said was art can never lie. Those purple marks you purposely tattooed because you lack in color can never lie—

The pain you indulged yourself in to surpass the pain you feel inside can never lie.

And I will tell you one more time:

"I did not feel the pain myself, but I've felt yours."

And I know how much it hurts.

Sincerely yours,
Self

--
10-15-21