I’m sick of this knife I keep twisting inside me; if only there was a tenderness that offers every

drop of honey and doesn’t get ruined in the end. Maybe it’s because I’m used to burying my
wounds instead of mending them. The ache keeps throbbing and the more I ignore it the worse it
gets. I’ve thought love is soft, ready to be given at the right time. This love had leaked until my
chest emptied , until the only option I had was trying to move faster than my sadness.

My body is a map nobody wants to read. It speaks of a stranded place, a road almost untravelled,
but often losing parts of its magic when it is taken for granted. My body is a flight of fancy for
those who want to feel better about themselves. I’m just a roadside detour. If I get to love, I end
up watching the ones I love loving someone else. I’m that kid at the toy store, hands pressing
against the glass, begging and crying, almost reaching, but ultimately not allowed what I want.
I’m wax, shifting in your hands as you like, as you need. I have no self esteem, no backbone.
You could stop for a couple of days and then go on with your life. Here, come and feast.