I Won’t Stop Singing

content and strong woman looking outwards

The first boy I loved

called me morose.

I used the same pens

that I wrote to him with,

to mark my wrists

with my brother’s death,

And bled out

every drop of despair.

But I failed.

He said my voice

was too soft

for this world.

I screamed

the poems that were buried

inside the softest parts of me,

louder than I could.

I slammed my chest

to his door,

cutting my weak ribs

down to size.

I forced my pillow

to bear

the weight of his goodbye.

But I was too sad,

too fragile,

and sometimes too much

to be saved.

I won’t remember

myself that way.

My voice

might be softer than his.

But his songs

are not anymore important than my own.

Now how human would it be of me,

If I tell you

that I won’t stop singing?
 

Featured Image Credit: SJC Photography

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