When I was seventeen, something cracked inside.
And seven years since, my story holds no context, no gift.
Only a tidal wave that had once wrecked my shores,
Wrecked my shores enough to make you a forbidden shelter.
Because only when I was really broken, did I see what my shattered bits, what I looked like.
I am a concoction, of steel and love and hope and anger.
Of faith and belief, and my edges are sewed tightly by the ribbons of doubt.
I am made of secrets, sometimes they leak through my skin, break free into the air, and recollect into forgotten old pieces, until those remnants spill out through words.
Sometimes, I would make a home for those words on these blank sheets,
And sometimes, they would only persist through a strike through, or a caricature made over them with ink, so as to hide who I really am.
Who am I then?
A woman who hides herself, craving to dissociate herself enough to spill forth out of the pandemonium called my mind?
Maybe, I will never know.
Perhaps these scribbles mean nothing.
Maybe I am searching solutions of a puzzle that will forever be unsolvable.
But then again, even then, the hope sewn inside craves to find one, to find an answer.
I love madly, dearly, passionately, nonchalantly and impersonally.
I love with my skin and bones.
I love through my sinews and blood, until I am a frothing mess of words and fear.
I love, just the same.
Memories lament inside,
In search of the next person they would reveal themselves to.
I fight them once a while, hoping to feel something more than an ordinary human.
Hoping if I kept them caged long enough, they would see me as a mystique, a woman of secrets and longing.
And sometimes, I let the spillage only make me something close to ordinary.
And close to ordinary I shall always be.
I am chaos, after all.
Unchained in your symmetry, roving between the spaces of your mind and soul, sometimes intruding in your dreamlands, begging for home.
I would come as a destitute at times,
Wishing you would give me shelter from the storms.
And in some nights, I become the storm instead.
Perhaps tonight is such a story,
Or perhaps the next night.
But the truth is, I shall be there, waiting, biding my time,
Until you collide into me, memory, dream and reality a clusterfuck of longing,
And beg me to light up your world with my darkness.
And only then, and only then,
Shall I find you, kiss your flaws, and free you of your lonesomeness.
So wait for me until then,
Draw me in your mind,
Color me with your soul,
Dabble the corner of my lips that still bleeds,
And wait, oh wait,
Until I am something more than you just need.