The Art of Healing

I know one way or another, I have to stop turning you into poetry. A time will come that I won't write even a single thing about you; no more dead metaphors to echo the fading heartbeats in my chest, not even a penny of a word to glorify the hurt slicing through the innermost parts of me I never knew you've reached. Realizing too late that these fresh cuts opened up the scars I've buried deep within.

But after countless poems written about you, the wounds will start to not matter.

Because I'll begin writing about the resurrection of a warrior rising from the grave of pain and finally choose to live solely for myself. You will no longer be the subject of my creations for my spilled tears will learn how to weave letters until they stitch up the fabrics of my heart you tore apart and mend the patches of my worn soul. My healing will be my greatest masterpiece like flowers stacked between pages of books, saving itself and taking her time to finish the process of self-preservation. And what a beauty they become even in withered death?

Then one day, you'll miss my rhymes. You'll long to read them once again and you'll wish to win back the poet that was once yours.