Maybe, just maybe, deep inside, all I want is to be written. All I want is for someone to write about me, to turn me into words — living entities that live forever. All I want is for someone to turn me into something that would live forever. Just like how the author of the Epic of Gilgamesh did to King Gilgamesh from the Mesopotamia. I want my name to live on forever. Not because it was written by me, but because it was written by someone who loves me. Through turning me into literature, our love would go on forever. A love that’s different than any love story the whole world recognize.
I guess, somehow, I just want someone to write me a poem everyday. Maybe not everyday, but I want someone to write me a poem constantly. A constant reminder of his or her love — his or her never ending love — of a person like me. I never saw myself as a lovely person. Heck, I never saw myself as someone who is worth to be loved. That’s why I need someone who will turn words into something important. Something that would make me feel important in all the corners deep inside my soul and heart. That’s how words should be: important and deep.
Somehow, I want someone to let my existence noticeable. That I am not some another person that would pass through someone’s life. Funny it may sound, but I want to be a permanent marker. When I stay in someone’s life, I want to stay.. permanently. I want to be with someone forever. I don’t care if his or her face would be a wreck in the first thing in the morning, but all I know is that that face is owned by the person whom I love.
And that is enough: to be written by the one you love and be with them.
I am a crow.
I am a crow who wishes to be a dove. I try so hard to paint my wings white. I struggle — literally — to turn all these black feathers into white delicate ones, but fate to me is cruel. Whenever I could feel my feathers turning to grey and eventually to white, I do something without the intention of doing so. I still arrive to the same destination: leaving blood and skin to the places I left.
I am disliked. I am bad. And I think, I will never ever forgive myself. I want to, but these thoughts of anger towards me for doing so much wrong is taking control over my emotions. They scream so loud and hideously that they could rip off your spinal chord through your skull. I want to shut them out, but they’re too loud for me. They make me sad all the time, because they haunt me always.
And as I continue to bleed; as I continue to pluck of these disgusting black feathers off my skin, I write with love and passion to those who can read these words: