an ode to the loveless, these are for you.

a poet is a very, very sad person

i felt ugly,
so i threw on my bralette.
it's the black lacy one you loved,
remember it?
i got it years ago in 2017,
and it still fits.
but that's beside the point.
i hopped in the shower and turned up the heat,
i could barely see.
i smoked a blunt and sat in the room of steam and smoke,
wondering when i was gonna choke.
when i was gonna quit,
when the pain would make me spit.
when i could finally hear my thoughts amidst the water hitting the shower curtain.
i feel like every word i write gets carved into my skin,
with those blades of yours.
when will my world be painted in technicolor?
i'm so sick of black and white.
i took a picture of the event and attached it,
it's up there,
above the title.
i thought maybe i could have a photo shoot and bring beauty from the pain,
but sometimes you can't.
all the photos were blurry, and that picture is the only one where you can't see my tear streaked face.
i wish this one could have some advice,
but sometimes my writing it just that.
writing.
words.
text on a page.
i've just learned that a poet is a very, very sad person who has learned to draw beauty from the pain.
and you can write all night,
trying to find your answers.
your reason.
your comfort in a cold world.
but sometimes it won't be clear for a while.
you'll be sad for a while.
that's ok.