Most of us are bitter over someone,
& this is the bitter truth.
Forever caught up in missing him/
her/
them.
I have learnt that
if you have used torn photographs as bandages
& spoiled alcohol as glue for your broken heart
& broken teeth
& nerves
& sanity,
& if you have used the back of your hand as a notebook,
because your pages are filled with ink scars,
makeshift remedies seem enough & should suffice.
But you can’t make medicine out of people,
& sighs are heaved through ruined lungs,
& handprints are branded onto skin
with incandescent iron.
You can’t make medicine out of people, and you ought to know better.
