and if, by any chance, you felt like crying,
read this.
cried,
ae.
i am crying for a fact that the book i made for myself becomes a paper i pen for those who have hurt and loved me at the same time. for those who have taught me so much in life that my heart refuse to accept those who wants to enter it.
i am crying because i feel like i have not loved enough to write the things i am crying for. or maybe i am not loved enough to rather express them all because fun fact: i have not experienced anything to express anything.
i am crying because the words i read online moved me to the core. they spoke to me the way i was craving for a mother's touch and/or a father's love. they caressed the child in me yet slaughtered my older self.
i am selfish to relate on those pannels that wasn't made for me. this is why i cry. i took other's pain as my own just because i can't figure where mine was (i refuse to know). i cry because my heart is full— anger, love, kindness, rage, and especially the rage. there is no place to put them all aside and i am but a cage of agony written in the back of my hand.
i cry because that's all i do, because that's all i can.
