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
I Won’t Stop Singing