You see, I was born to love.
I become elastic.
I am capable of extending what is needed
and what is beyond my limits;
even though it is hurting,
even though it causes dying of what’s within.
I become my inner self.
I become my soul thirsty for what is worth.
I become the definition of reciprocity
until my teeth are stuttered of saying yes
to those things I am capable of not doing.
You see, I become the stories,
but as long as I am breathing, I am the story.
I become my tongue who has many tales to tell,
but there are times that I am fluent with silence.
As this is the language of the ocean breeze,
of sunflowers dancing,
and of those fireflies who are still being haunted with their childhood memories.
Will they forgive the hands which trapped them?
Or will there still be mornings for them inside the jar?
I become the fireflies,
I become the light dimming as I serve the purpose.
Inch by inch, I can feel you’re near me.
Your breathing remains what I hate the most.
Your sweat drips on my back as I become the archway
towards this burnt forest praying for the sun and for the rain at the same time.
Yet you still manage to get my knees stoop down,
I am terrified.
I am tricked.
I couldn’t talk, as if my heart is strangled with every thrust
only you can invent.
Or will the fireflies die before they can make a choice?
You see, I belong to somewhere else.
I become one of the stories to be read when it rains.
I become the rain.
I become the hush of silence of overflowing self-pity my pillow can only understand.
At night, when I am alone, I can only think of betraying myself through an exile, from this body.
But only ends waking up every morning smiling to whoever owns this being, in the mirror.
I become my self-reflection.
I become the placid water its history won’t be told anymore.
You see, that I am able to love,
but I belong to the coldness of misery and will be part of me as I grow older.
I would love to see me burning alive just to escape this coldness.
I become the fire.
I become consumable.
You see, that I belong to somewhere else.
I become the sky when it’s dark outside,
alone in the coffee shop, Friday night.
That I only need to tap my pen to create a noise because this silence becomes a prayer of me to get closer to the moon.
I become what I want to become, except the moon.
The moon is a picturesque of bliss, lacking of self-pity and self-hatred.
I will love the moon until the fondest kills me,
until I belong to what is further than beyond,
until I belong to the moon,
or until I become the moon.
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