I came back to this small apartment;
ghosts of our love clung to the walls.

Windows etched
by love and rage.

A thick layer of regret
coating every surface.

Coating me.

I cut myself
on shards
of traumas
shoved so

_carelessly_

into the corners of this place—
where unspoken yearning was realized.

I found no wound;
I bled and bled.

In the first days?
I feared those ghosts.

In the months that followed?
I raged against them.

At last, I exhausted tears and rage.

I spoke with those ghosts
in quiet tones,
and began to make peace.

I learned to love them;
and they loved me back.

Ours was not a love story.
Yet—
it was filled with joy.

Ours was not a tragedy.
Yet—
it was filled with tears.

I hope you hate me.
I don’t have the luxury—

I will never be able to forget you,
my dear one.

I will carry
our love

    l    from navel
    i
    k
    e

    a

    S
    C
    A
    R    to clavicle

forever.

You will always be
my greatest regret.

You will always be
the mistake I had to make.

Thank you for our love.
Thank you for our rage.
Thank you for showing me who I really am.
Thank you for teaching me limits, at last.