truth is, i no longer burn.

truth is, i can’t write anymore.

i can no longer distinguish what it meant to become a raconteur. i can no longer say that i have loved the works i have been writing because it has been nothing but about my heart being severed like a house that broke down because of a tornado. i can no longer string words that would make me feel less miserable because it was poetic enough that my artistry can cover my deteriorating sanity.

truth is, i have been writing with nothing but thoughts of wanting to go back to how things were when everything was filled with all shades of hues present in the rainbow.

i just have so much feeling in me that i needed to cry out. i have so much feelings in me that i cannot express through words so instead, i use the small hint of hope present in my eyes whenever i get to look myself in the mirror without hating how my asymmetrical face looked so crooked — i am a perfectionist.

i have so much feeling in me that i needed assurance from other people that my existence is not bothersome. i just hope my family would never forget the name “mikaella” as someone who burns and shines bright.

i hope they won’t remember the “mikaella” who burns everything, so stop protecting me and my peace.

i never expected anymore than that.