most of the time, i thought i am made from the griefs of the stars. i am made from dead marigolds swept on the corners of the cemetery, carefully made from a fallen love i never even had. i was made from a clear intention that I'm to be written as the saddest line you'll ever read than neruda's, that was much more a melancholy bukowksi could ever write. a similar depiction of sadness of van gogh's, darling.
i'd like to think i was made from all of it.
i was made from it.
but i think i will no longer write about it. i will not write how i fell gracelessly from salvation nor i will write about slow dancing towards a freight train.
because i was never for it. i was never meant for it.
i think i am made for saving myself no matter how immemorially fucked up everything is. i am made not to dance towards that train because i am meant to ride it towards a big city where i could venture out, chase my dreams, have my heart broken over an actual person and not some straight-up-pulled-from-a-romance-book dude I was obsessing for months. maybe i was never broken, i was just too busy being all aware, too busy feeling everything, too busy being empathic, too busy being selfless.
i was too busy writing my name next to some saddest verses i could think from counting people over the park. i am ought to kiss the distant stars and won't tell myself i'm dead too but rather i will rest my head on the crook of its afterglow because i deserve a rest, i deserve the softness I've been depriving myself for years. i am ought to tuck a marigold on my ear and not label myself dead. I deserve a soft rendition of taking in reality that's too cruel for me for years.
— nana, "it's 2am and I'm thinking of getting my shit together"