[Poetry] Letter to myself

Dear me,

there are so many things I am in need to tell you only my wordhoard does not encompass the

necessary capacity. You create a paradox of thoughts in my head. Every time I attempt to express my

feelings toward you, thousands of words flood my mind without my ability to grasp their meaning,

and the concept of language blurs my consciousness. The sheer endeavour of letting these words

pass the threshold of my tongue fails time over time as the expressions get stuck in my throat,

making me suffocate from my sentiments. The notion of language is too limited to articulate my

thoughts and feelings towards you, but at the same time, it is too vast to make it possible for me to

grasp a specific definition. Words keep running through my mind in the unsteady rhythm of my

anxious heartbeat.

Da-dum. Da-dum. Da-dum. Da-dum. Da-dum. Da-Dum. Da-dum.

The constant noise in my head you create – confusing me, aggravating me, disturbing me. Every

moment I am yearning for some sense of silence, but you keep bothering me with those internal

voices. Or do they come from outside of my mind? I can not differentiate between it anymore.

Emily Dickson wrote “Hope is the thing with feathers/ that perches in the soul/ And sings the tune

without the words/ and never stops at all”, yet you have turned it into a phoenix of doubt and fear

and query. Majestically flaming and blazing within my soul, never quite burning me from within but

simply creating constant agony as my very core is stroked by flames of my negative spirits.

At times, however, I like to think that you and your self-destructive tendencies have made me a

better artist. I write my pain on my body as a poet would write on paper. Sonnets of depression

carved into my cells. Haikus of self-hatred scaring my flesh. Odes to death composed on my wrist. A

blade, my calligraphy feather, etching line after line, verse after verse, into my paper-like skin. Blank,

in need to be written on. Blank, a scream – to tell a story. Blank, soon drenched in the red of passion.

People often ask me if I am afraid of death, but the only thing I am terrified of is living. The night is

my only safe haven, because for once some sense of hope sparks in me like a small firework. In those

hours of darkness, my only wish is that this time the sun will not rise again in the morning. Every

time aurora hits my eye-bag-defined face in which yet another sleepless night is edged like graffiti

into stone, my heart sinks once again. And in all honesty, I do not know how to keep on fighting for

life or death.

Yours truly,


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