My tears have grown tired of falling.
They have traced the same weary path down my cheeks
so many times that my skin remembers the salt.
I once thought the darkness behind closed eyes,
would be enough to keep them from spilling,
but even in the quiet, even in the stillness,
my lashes tremble and let them flow.
I am broken, splintered in places I can no longer name
and bitter in ways I never wished to be.
Yet I still gather the pieces,
hands trembling as I try to stitch myself back together,
threading through the soft flesh of my heart,
hoping one day it might hold.
But no matter how I sew,
love seems to take a blade to my work,
slashing it open again,
leaving me standing over the ruins of something
I thought was finally safe.
It has become nothing but trial and error,
a cruel experiment where my heart is the subject,
my faith the gamble,
and my scars the only results I keep.
Is this plan called love
ever meant to succeed?
Or is it nothing more than a beautiful deception,
a war where the only victories are temporary
and the battlefield is littered
with wounds that never truly heal?
Because all I have left now
are the echoes of what was,
and the ghost of what should have been.