Kings have honour.
Soldiers have bravery.
Poets have heart.
The kind of things people carve into stone and remember long after the person is gone.
Kings inherit their crowns.
Soldiers inherit their orders.
Poets inherit the burden of feeling everything.
Perhaps I was given something too.
I searched for it in quiet rooms, in old memories, in the faces of people who swore they knew me.
I found nothing noble.
No honour.
No bravery.
No heart worth writing about.
Only this-
this heat beneath my ribs, this thing that refuses to become grief.
I have tried to soften it.
I have named it sadness.
I have called it pain.
I have waited for it to become something
I could forgive.
It never did.
So let the kings keep their honour.
Let the soldiers keep their bravery.
Let the poets keep their hearts.
I have no use for any of them.
All I have is rage.
And somehow,
it is the only thing that stayed.
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ěGă / Ariana P.