I was wrong

I stopped writing because I was wrong.

I was wrong about it all.

I thought I could make it beautiful. I thought I could tear myself apart and make a mosaic out of the pieces.

I thought the sadness was temporary, that these words could be beautiful

When I didn’t feel the same.

I thought I could have roses without thorns

But no painting turns out pretty when you’re using your own blood.

And none of this ever occurs to you until you notice it all.

Until you’re looking at the sunset ,

You’re watching all the colours melt and everything seems calm in that moment

And you feel like you can actually breathe.

The stars start to appear and you can feel it in your soul.

You feel alive,

But you don’t want to be.