I write

By Sara Anil

I write…
I write love — my heart?
I sell my soul.
I write tears.
I write anger, and often calm.
I seek shelter.
I raise questions.

But how exactly do you hold scars, my dear?

Do you sit with the pain?
The past: that bane,
a loud reminder.
Should you be kinder?
Make friends with it?
Or call it names,
just for it to fade one day?
But why do you mourn its departure?
Just uproot the weed!
Grow your crop, for tomorrow awaits.
But what if the soil forgets
how to hold its flowers?

So the question stands, my love.

As for me… I write —
my love, my soul, my tears,
the joy, the calm, the anger.

For me.
For her.
For them.

I write the silence, and the noise
of all that was lost,
and all that’s still learning how to bloom.

And as for my scars?
They become my voice.