rosy

I've been repenting of my sins for a long time, asking what I could've done differently. Yearning for words my mother could've said and stop longing for a daydream that when I wake up, being careless with my life will not be as natural as breathing. I felt a wishful lust for not being alone—when feeling a lot will not seem like feeling empty—hoping one day I'll stop dreaming. Stop dreaming of when all of my silence will linger in my bones; it will also shut down the chaos in my mind. Swear to all the saints that I'd loved if I could.

And if I could, I would scrape all my scars—wishful, for when I did, it would then burn all my troubles away. I was hopeful that when I did, it would dry down my river of tears; by then, it would stop me from drowning. I am hopeful that when my wounds dry up, kneeling before God will not make me cry anymore. By then, the sky won't be empty.