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Poem

On my bones, insecurity was carved with a chisel, deep and merciless,
And on my skin, you tattooed doubt, like an artist of shadow and suffering,
Your steps left imprints on my soul, like paths lost in the mist,
You injected fear into my spine, a bitter venom coursing through my veins.
You stabbed—stabbed—stabbed my heart until I bled dry,
Then you left, but the dagger remained deeply embedded in my fragile essence,
I see your face everywhere, pushing the dagger into the core of my being,
But I cannot bleed, for I am a corpse, a forgotten fragment of love.
I cannot cry, for I am a cloud that has forgotten how to weep over the earth,
I am just a person, forgetting what it's like to be touched by the gentle wings of love,
With each step, I sink deeper into the shifting sands of time,
I try to cling to anyone, but there is no one, just immense silence.
And so I hold onto the burning light that pierces through my sad window,
I dig my nails into it, clutching it like a promise that will not leave,
But the moon must shine, and the night must spread its silent mantle,
The mark of the betrayer has colored me red, a red that cannot be washed away.
The mark of the betrayer left me dead, suffocated by words never spoken,
The mark of the betrayer left a melancholy that cannot be driven away by light,
The betrayer has gone, the betrayer has gone, but why—why has the fear not left?
Why does insecurity rot my flesh, and doubt shake my marrow?
Why am I still untouched by love, a soul lost in the labyrinth of forgetfulness?
The betrayer has gone, and with them, love extinguished, leaving only shadows.

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