Writers 
I knew I fell for you.
You held me up in high frames.
We rode upon pink clouds.
You serenaded me perfectly,
stitched up parts of me you didn't hurt,
thrilled me with the warmth of you.
But all I did
was bleed you dry.
Slowly depreciate you
while hugging you.
I stabbed you sweetly with pens.
I know you didn't know
if you could stay or leave,
but you see—
I dare not give in
to your perfect heaven.
It always turns against me.
But I cannot let you go either,
so I let you suffer
a drastic fate.
I say the words every time
without meaning them.
That's how cruel
my Machiavelli can be.
God forbid
good things
from threatening
to happen to me.
And I must say,
I felt a hero in my soul
when close to you—
something I never accepted.
No, not to you.
I know you waged war
against this part of me,
but please,
wait till I yearn for healing.
Nobody heals me but me.
Blame not your heart.
Do not think you need to change.
I need to work on me—
growing out of this
everlasting pattern of avoidance.
Breathing in air
that is not intoxicated
by people's tears.
Maybe,
just maybe,
that will make me feel alive.