Broken inside. Cut

like the skin of a plum -

see the flesh underneath,

so bright

that amongst the pain lies the gateway

to another dimension

where stronger feelings, deeper thoughts,

glitter like stars.

 

The blade of a knife must be magic if

as well as blood

it can draw the rivers

of another world.

In, perhaps, a disconcerting way

sensations brought to life by the wound

are gratifying

 

not quite like the soft relief from

holding myself

but pleasant and allowing me

to hold myself together.

It shows I care, you know?

Perhaps you don’t...

But there’s silk in the steel

of breaking inside.

 

A land of brighter colours,

sharpened by that knife-edge.

There’s warmth in the coldness of grief -

I’d hate myself

if I found myself indifferent.

 

Love wasn’t meant to be easy -

doesn’t matter what type.

For me, to feel my love become agony

is its reawakening while its memory.

Don’t be scared or sorry for me.

 

I’m coping.

Think of the cloudless sky.

That intense blue.

That’s how I feel

Blue...

but free and vast

and bright.

Besides, it’s not like this all the time.

And it’s good to be balanced.

Most of the time cheerful,

some of the time

broken.

So.

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