Sometimes, I sit on the edge of my bed and watch the wall.
It is white. I wish that it were blue.
Sometimes, I will just sit, and watch, and cry, because I hear too many voices in me, submerging me.
Why can't I just let it out?
Why is it all a secret?
Was there anything I could've done? Anything?
Maybe... maybe it is because of me.
Maybe it is all because of me that my sister's bedroom, the one we decorated to look like a glowing galaxy, is empty.
Maybe it is because of me that my sister, who was nine, who was younger than me, who loved me, who cried when I cried because she couldn't bear to see me so broken, who was angry at me for a week for killing a ladybug — maybe it is because of me that she is not an "is" anymore; she is only a "was".
— lana
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Love, Lana ✓
Poesiayou're just a constellation; too far away to truly love, only to admire. » a collection of poems written through a blur of tears, memories, and quiet reverie. copyright @diamondsandsun
