writing

Confession

I have a confession to make. 
I don’t know what you look like anymore. 
It’s like the curtain’s closed and covering your features now. 
Not blacked out, greyed out more so and - 
I can summon your face, but the lines! 

The oh so dear hard lines are softening. 
I actually wish they were. Tsk!
Your face is behind that curtain and I’m not allowed to pull it; 
it’s an unspoken rule that has been spoken of.
You still exist, but you won’t speak to me. 

Maybe your heart-shaped iron is pumping slow. Do you know?
A few weeks ago I heard you. 
We were in the same house, and I knew. 
You were the only one who had and has no suspicion
No one would speak honest words with you.

I was angry and I put all of its force on you. 
But! I am one of those people 
Who accepts your will and lives by it.
No approach have I initiated. No love have I shown. 
How can I send love towards your silence?

You sent my brother to tell me not to show up anymore. 
You even told my own flesh to amputate me. 
And this might as well be the vocabulary you’ve used. 
It’s all clinical and meticulously executed. It’s logical. 
I’ve carried out the necessary steps for your conclusion and thus validated the hypothesis.

But a surgery leaves marks. You know you won’t survive this. 
Death is imminent. Dignity is not. 
There is no dignity in dying, they say.
Just know I know you’re scared. Know your love for me like I know it -
It’s there.

I’d rather go to hell though. 
And hell has so many faces. 
One of them, only one has to smile back. 
I wish heaven will beam at you.
Cuddle you and snuggle you, like a baby.

I wish heaven will beam at you.


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