I asked the cracks on my forehead, graciously accompanying marks and bruises,
“Who did this to you?”
There’s no reply, it just spreads, cracks further down to the side of my eyes. My eyes begin to water but my will still holds strong for a reply.
The scar, as stubborn as the parent, stays tenacious and splits further down, then in an odd fashion, sideways, marking its territory.
I still stand strong, adamant on getting a reply.
The battle continues and eventually, I break.
Upon my surrender, the scar turns to me and whispers I deadly undertone,
“You did this to me, you. You gave me away to someone else. You thought it was okay to be scared in love, it was okay to be left writing and screeching with a torn heart and muscles, with a few pulled hair. Because you’re never too broken, there’s always a better morning, with lies and promises you’ll readily believe. But, look where your love brought us. A silent, standstill. Where you’re just a rose, hoping someone will overlook your thorns and accept you with the love you lost.
Well, nobody will do that, because as poetic as it sounds, it not what happens. You, YOU, pick out your thorns, you don’t let yourself crack. And before you fall in love with someone who spreads cracks in the floor, choose the underground and fall for yourself. Because darling, did everyone ever buy a rose with thorns?”