The first boy I loved
called me morose.
I used the same pens
that I wrote to him with,
to mark my wrists
with my brother’s death,
And bled out
every drop of despair.
But I failed.
He said my voice
was too soft
for this world.
I screamed
the poems that were buried
inside the softest parts of me,
louder than I could.
I slammed my chest
to his door,
cutting my weak ribs
down to size.
I forced my pillow
to bear
But I was too sad,
too fragile,
and sometimes too much
to be saved.
I won’t remember
myself that way.
My voice
might be softer than his.
But his songs
are not any more important than my own.
Now how human would it be of me,
If I tell you
that I won’t stop singing?
Featured Image Credit: Marisa Harris