POETRY THAT STAYS

Of course, it has always been you.

Someone once said, that something couldn't be a disaster if you won't let it destroy you — if you prepare enough to not let it ruin you. But darling, I have tried so hard, I tried so bad.

I created my armor stronger just so it couldn't be dismantled. I built my walls taller, just so a single brick couldn't be teared down. I have grown to stand and see the world in a larger scope.

 I tried to be this version that a massive catastrophe couldn't entangle me. That I can't just let myself be watered down and let my edges soften. I finally found ways to burn my bridges piece by piece, bit by bit, every fiber that it has until it has nothing at all, but ashes that eventually faded through the smokey skyline.

And I covered myself with walls enough to isolate me — from not seeing you.

But you came through the thin air and broke my shield. You whispered and in a millisecond, the walls I built for years teared apart. You made this world narrower than ever — I used to look at it as if it was swallowing me completely. 

You came running until the colors of the sunset dulled me. Until I realized it was you again — who is approaching to be the disaster. To let me catch my ruins, with my bare hands, leaving me marks of pain.

And maybe you accumulated enough ashes and dusts that were once dispersed through the thick horizon only to build them as your bridges towards me.

Until I am nothing but to deal being destroyed all over again — by you. Of course, it has always been you.