I built a nest,
Thinking timing is best.
I painted a version of you,
Thinking it was the best I could do.
I carved a version of you,
Thinking it would turn a new you.

Though I loved all of you,
I was hoping, I was coping,
I was sinking, I was scuttling.
I was drowning in my mess,
But I was surviving for your flesh.

I was empty, but I was watering.
I did everything for you —
But was I the best?
My life was falling apart,
But I was there at your best.
Yet I wasn't enough for your nest.

You wanted your best.
You wanted the newness.
You wanted it easier —
The kind that comes without test.

I thought love was enough to make you stay.
I thought I was the one you cared for.
I thought I was the one you ever wanted.
But I was the imbecile, you say —
The kind you see in cinema.

But I would say
I'm the kind you read in literature.
Sylvia Plath is my inspiration.
Cinema may fade,
But her words will never erase.
Cinema seems so real,
But what she and I felt is surreal.

By: Zaima