So it goes

You think you’re damaged, don’t you? Just as how those shattered glasses gleam on the floor of your apartment that reeks of the scent of grief

you (oddly) pride yourself with the kind of exquisiteness that only
wounded people who know how to swim in the hideousness of agony
understand
(and admire, because you all fucking love the cliché, misery loves company). 
You seem to forget how beautiful you are—despite the countless hours you spent
in front of that mirror, not so long ago,
loving and romanticizing the glow of morning afters.

And here I am, infatuated.

Writing your name in the air,

in the spaces where we used to sit and drink,
in that bed you (still) share with your former lover,
between the tangles of your cat's fur,
in the sticks of half burnt cigarettes—I write your name everywhere.
Yes, you have no idea that I’ve been doing that for days now
because you are moping and you’re eyes are too clogged
with tears, to witness how I try to perfect the strokes 
of your initials, of the letters Ts where I crucify
this seemingly teenage agony. I am writing your name so I could hold myself back

from tracing the ink on your arms, from touching that wounded body, from touching that wounded heart. (For Tefiny)