But I wish not to bleed anymore.

 

And if it makes me stronger, then what?

 

I don’t want the lesson in strength;

the wisdom,

or the need to be bigger.

 

I am not big.

 

Only dying,

 

over something that has no place for grief.

 

Not when it stripped me of everything I am,

not the way it was.

 

Should it hurt more to grieve if the lover was fair?

 

This was not so.

Why, then, are there tears of gold?

 

Why, still, do I wake at midnight to a minor key,

 

a haunting melody,

that does little to lull me back to sleep.

 

Time will heal.

 

But it will always feel like shattered glass

on his birthday—

when he looked at me,

and made me believe I knew love.

 

That scar will always be tender.

 

To grieve the hurt that will die;

 

please,

I only wish it wouldn’t bleed.

​

​

— A.M. Sención

12.26.2024