By Yamini Mishra
I loved-God, I loved.
With everything I had,
with everything I was.
But it doesn't always circle back, does it?
I loved,
but I was never loved.
So I found comfort in pain-
a dimly lit room,
a single chair,
sitting hunched forward,
hands clasped together
as if holding something fragile.
The dying flowers decaying in soil,
paper cuts from the letters unsent,
the voices-never quiet.
Lost.
Bleeding.
I’ve told this story
a thousand times before,
just never out loud.
It’s unfortunate,
but it is what it is.
You wanted to protect your peace,
and I became the price of it.
Left behind-
that's what I tell myself.
Over and over.
It is what it is.