The Museum Of becoming
I loved you with both hands broken,
offered you oceans cupped in cracked palms,
watched it leak, leak, leak,
through fingers too battered to hold a tide.
I made myself a museum of becoming,
stitched old prayers into the walls,
hung portraits of the selves I killed to be loved,
polished my ribs until they gleamed like pearls,
sewed silk into my voice,
laced my spine with iron and gold.
Still —
still —
never enough.
You looked at me like a lukewarm cup of coffee,
forgotten on the counter,
cold and curdled and waiting to be thrown away.
I wrote symphonies across my skin,
tattooed your name in invisible ink on my lungs,
trained my heart to beat in the shape of your smile —
God, I would have set myself on fire
just to keep you warm.
And still —
still —
never enough.
I could have carved out whole galaxies,
plucked stars from their cradles and handed them to you,
and you would have asked for the moon, too,
and my bones, too,
and the breath from my mouth, too.
I wore myself down like riverstone,
all edges smoothed away,
just so you wouldn’t cut yourself on my love.
But you never even noticed.
You never even slipped.
I was a feast for your hunger,
but you said you weren’t hungry.
I was a lighthouse in your storms,
but you said you liked drowning better.
And now —
now I sit here with a chest full of echoes,
a garden where nothing grows,
a life half-lived,
whispering to the hollow night:
What more?
What more could I have become?
The stars blink back, indifferent.
The world keeps spinning, tired of my asking.
And you?
You don't even remember my name.
Copyright © Amar Nasreddine | Year Posted 2025
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