&&.
guess how many jars are being filled inside my ribs. twenties?nothings? hundreds? i actually lost my count this time. wonder what's inside these jars? they are just simple promises you told me that you're telling her now, sweet poems you gave me that you're giving her now, and the plans we shared that you're already planning with her.
guess how many dead butterflies are laying inside my tummy. unlike the jars, these are more plenty. they are the butterflies you put inside my tummy's garden before. i thought you made them live here is because you wanted some special effect between the two of us but no, you just wanted my garden to sting when the butterflies die.
guess how many scars are found in my galaxy-like body. these are actually uncountable, to be honest, because they aren't cut into tiny pieces. they're just covering my entire skin, leaving no empty parts. as you can visualized, there are words written here; your name, your hubbies, your favorite colors, your favorite food, and here near my heart is your face. artists might see my body as a masterpiece once they witness everything about you tattooed in me but i can't agree with them. everything about you hurts so i scratched every single word stuck in me that's why i left with nothing. i'm no masterpiece, just a broken piece trying to heal day by day.
— the person being left with nothing.
YOU ARE READING
Proses with its Roses
PoetryWe all have pain inside us, inside those softhearted yet tough hearts and it's on us on how to express it, how to ease it, and how to control it. Painters grab their brushes to express. Singers grab their microphones to express. Dancers grab their s...
