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Image Source: Huffpost I wouldn’t think of it much If the tea I so love to drink Wouldn’t have found a genius way To trickle down my white t-shirt Leaving a stubborn brown stain. She would then find her way down Every time I wear a white top. If what I wear is already stained, She doesn’t bother to leave her mark again; Maybe she knows to not knock the same door twice, Maybe she identifies her own marks. There are seasons when I love to wear white But I can never wear the ones I own, not again Because her scars don’t leave And I can never give up on a cup of tea, So I let her spill and stay where she wants to be. If the top’s not white, she doesn’t bother to drain Maybe she knows to not hurt the ones that don’t feel pain. I never spill her on my black cardigan- She is picky that way, not to fall for anyone. Every white t-shirt I have ever owned Screams of her taste, of her skin tone, I wouldn’t mind losing so many clothes If it weren...

Someday you will tell them your story. But darling, do not think that they'll listen to it. They will hush you up. "Pretend that it never happened," They will tell this as they avert their eyes. They will not pat your back. They will not see how brave you were. They will only see the scars and not the wounds. All they will wish for is those scars to disappear. But dear, when you have born those wounds With all your heart and might, Dare you not lose the scars. Scars that define who you are now, Scars that will tell your story When the world will shut their ears, Scars that will pat your back And remind you of the courage you had shown, For, darling, you will need to be brave Again And again.

A second of eternity Pouring into a frail heart, Mouthful of love And handful of trust. Wounds that lasted But only for a moment, Have turned to rotten flesh, And used-to-be-lips-and-a-face. Then love comes again Like a rainbow on a clear-sky-day. The dark clouds must have Withered away in pain. A new skin appears now, Fresh and unsullied To be wounded again But this time, with memories.

She whispers words in my ears, Songs in my head, Dark songs in my soul. She vanishes as dawn breaks. And when the night Covers me With its starless blanket, She appears again On the doorstep. Two gentle knocks On the wooden door. Third, She calls out my name. She then whispers my name, Again and again. She sings songs of the past, Songs of the dead. She wears the moon On her face. But tonight's a moonless night; She bears no face. She whispers death in my ears, Songs in my head. Songs forgotten, Songs of the dead.

My brave warrior, Thou art no Lazarus. Thou will not resurrect. Thou dig thy own grave. Thou cannot bequeath Thy slayings to the soil. The soil shall not bury Thy charred soul. Eden waits not for thou. Thy scars won't go; They won't leave, They won't heal. Wear them as a curse. Wear them as a curse Till thy corpse rot. Thy soul shall suffer While the blood-stained Weeds will shout, "Wear it as a curse, Wear it as a curse!"