i used to live through words while letting the sun melts into my skin, i fix disordered patterns to cover up the black holes where i used to lay my back with over all these years. i refuse to admire the painted daffodils that i made when i was young for i’m always busy counting the part of my existence scattered on sheets. there are times that i get scared to continue putting broken stitches to every unhealed wounds under, but i have no choice for it’s the only way to save myself; i drown myself and that’s the only time that i could breathe. i create constellations of words to erase the bloodstains that used to be my favourite back then. i continue to write, and to write, and to write that i can no longer know if i am still writing beautiful things or it’s just my way of losing parts of my existence.
i let the words creep along the paper until it reach my throat and right there, i’ll feel the coldness as if it is the death approaching, but it’s alright for the metaphors are the living version of my sadness. i carry every story that i can find into my journals so i will have something to tell every time it rains. i was so busy admiring all the wrecked swirling emotions along my breathing that i didn’t notice that the blue is now the only colour that makes me feel. i cover my eyes just to find myself standing at the edge of the cliff gaining a bitter laughter by the thought that no one can still hear my whispers. people are probably not believing that sadness gets lesser when you break them down into metaphors, but i do. i believed so much that the void grows more. now, they found me breathless and cold to death in between of my rhymes and metaphors, and i heard people blame how i dealt with my sadness: “what can you expect, she’s a poet.” i’d just let them speak about me along the downtowns and i just watched myself bleed, still with the black holes and rainfalls.
perhaps, people really know that there’s no way to escape and that writing every aches down is just another way of dying. but what people didn’t know is that i have buried myself—
even before i learn how to write poems.
— 00:57 l. sin, before poetry
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»» photo (without the words in it) taken from Lumi Tuomi
