This is me, at 1am, crying over perfection that might never let myself have.
This is me, at 1am, missing a past I never experienced.
This is me, at 1am, listening to sad music and hoping I don't stop crying.
This is me:
I am made up of a plethora of tiny, little teardrops that will never dry up, and i don't really mind.
This is me:
Accepting the finality of my fate and understanding that much of this isn't really meant for me.
This is me:
Understanding that I will always love more and nothing can stop that, that it is a blessing to feel this much, but not letting anyone take advantage of me.
This is me:
Knowing that bread will always be there for me even when I cannot be there for myself. Realizing that pasts will always connect to build futures and I can have a say in mine if I really want.
This is me stopping to find myself, because I cannot find what hasn't been created.
YOU ARE READING
wordlings
Poetryi like words. so i write them. now you have to read them. cover by -daisukii
