Everytime I write,
something dies.
Every night looks like a homicide
yet, I couldn’t feel more alive.
Here is where I kill all the confusion in my life,
where I pin my pain on a cross for salvation
and stop forgetting to forgive myself for not being good enough
because the only thing between good and bad is perception.
Humans in romance with reasons
but can’t face the reality that
saints can sin,
and sinners can save.
Maybe I’m not sure which of the two I am
but as I lay naked on these pages
I can amputate my hatred and replace it with sympathy.
So I can peacefully save myself.
So I can forgive everyone’s arms for being a sea I was never able to swim in.
So I can let go of people who are always leaving before goodbyes.
So I can stop pleasing people that won’t hold me,
that won’t show me they can stay.
But sympathy taught me that
loneliness is never felt alone
and maybe I’ve never felt someone's sea of arms because they're afraid they’ll drown me in them
and maybe everyone leaves me without notice because they realized that leaving in silence makes it easier to not miss everything about someone, even their wave lengths of ‘goodbye’
and maybe, maybe we’re all afraid of the same thing--
not being enough to keep
because you can be a dime
but what good is that if they’re looking for a dollar?
We all need saving
but we’re all spent on trying to save each other.
So here,
here I wrap my own wounds with words,
trying to save myself
because that's the only saving that really matters in the end.

So here, writing has become a synonm for saving.