This is (NOT) an Elegy

One: Every time I close my eyes,
I see yours glow in the color of the highlighter marks on my calendar.
Two: The traces of our late night conversations are still apparent on strangers’ morning faces.
Three: I believe time heals wounds just to cut them open again.
Four: Peeling the skin you clothed me in left scars on my ugly flesh that now glow in the dark
Five: At nights, I put my earphones on so I wouldn’t hear the screeches and screams of the memories hidden beneath my bed.
Six: I take painkillers before I sleep because the migraine nightmares trigger is like having a wound being stitched by a surgeon with shaky hands an a broken stitching needle.
Seven: I dug a grave in my room but I buried nothing inside, as the dead body of my journals stood by, watching.
Eight: The Ink stains on my fragmented body cannot be washed away.
Nine: My room is not a cemetery, my bed is not a grave.
Ten: This is not an elegy.
Ten: Eulogies are said on funerals, and only the living can bleed this much.
Ten: This is not to time heals wounds.
Ten: This is not to misery brings wisdom.
Ten: This is not to the half filled glass.
Ten: This is to drinking the glass.
a cheer for people whose scars and mine are puzzle pieces that fit together and make a cracked wall.
Ten:This is to swear words we shout until we scroach our throats as we stare down at the world from the rooftops of rock bottom,
Ten: This is to our bare feet that grew weary and bruised on journies to a distant land that only exists in our sick minds,
Ten: This is to the voices in our heads telling us about the melancholic gateways we chose not to take,

Ten: This is to realities we fake in six nights and days,
Ten: This is to the blasphemy we mumble as we pray,
Ten: this to our beating hearts and throbbing minds.
Ten: This is not a requiem, not an elegy nor a mourning tone,

Ten: This is to a melody to dance to.