you said,

as i plucked off

pieces of my skull,

transforming them

from something

terrifying

into something

ingenious.

 

i took the flowers

off the casket

that held all the sacred

things in life,

and planted them

in my backyard,

and waited for them

to grow into

something magnificent

 

and they never did.

 

so now i use the corpses

of all the ‘what ifs’

and “could’ve beens”

to cage up the

overwhelming darkness

that traumatized me

into the self-proclaimed

artist i am today.

 

i’ll never stop writing

because i will never

be happy.