These memories are vengeful mirrors
facing my grieving countenance,
with the one smiling in her true sense,
mocking me with it—
something I unlearned through seasons
passing by with time's blur.
I don't meet my past self very fair,
I envy her for living love without fear
even if it meant for a little while—
while she accuses me
for not protecting her enough,
for always being too late to realise.
Being on time has never really been my forte.
There aren't scars on her skin...yet,
and so she doesn't question mine,
doesn't even ask why they haven't healed yet,
else she'd know the ordeal I go through
each day facing them, tending them—
stitch by stitch,
sealing them with tears, their pain brings.
She'd soften, even offer me her forgiveness,
but I know it better,
the wounds I have yielded
simply won't erase from my memory—
despite they dissolve in my skin,
so will be their memory,
growing a branch inside my being
bearing rotten fruits of insecurities
I savour on the bitterness of
quite well these days already.
©umclite
U