I am a wildcard that cries silently when drawn, but serenades you still.
I put bandaids on my mouth that speak.
I poison words and call them poetry.

I survive on sorrow,
I suffocate myself with salt-stained pillows, hands inked down at the excuse of my rage. Maybe I've known love, but all my texts are some I could never send.
My journals and notes are tired of hearing the same names over and over again.

I've tattooed "you made me a poet" on my bones, but I'm confused how many people I should label as "you."

But one day;
I'll watch the sky,
it will be sunset,
and the world around me will be painted in yellow.
And I love yellow.
And soon I will realize that
I will be okay.