I spend way too much time tugging at memories and pieces of you, to form another piece of poetry.
I relive endings over and over, cry for a brief moment and pour onto the blank page.
My mind paints you into a masterpiece; it tends to do that, confuse toxicity with beauty. A sick trick that somehow never fails.
I write about you like you are the sun, and I, just another distant star. I fall and crash; did you wish on me?
‘You’, an amalgamation of everyone that made me feel something. I, the same old naïve girl, chasing heartbreak to fill one void with another.
Somewhere between self-destruction and recovery, I lost myself. And when I find her, I’ll write a happy poem.