And it is fine
after eight years to write
resuming writing after a seemingly lifetime of silence
…
Blaming the stars, the stupid birds around
afraid of sharing what’s inside
blaming the numbness, the nothingness
…
And it is alright
to find myself alone at night
not counting tears after a lifetime of lies
…
Blaming the bloodline, the broken glass
between hands
wondering what would it feel like to simply cut, cut deep, to cut inside
the person I was, the part of myself I’ve lost somehow
…
and I am fine, I am quite alright
After all this silence, after the biological changing process
resuming writing after clearing all worms traces
