Morbid Skies

By Karl Osric R. Mendoza

I would always ruminate on the reason why I bleed so much poetry. I would scribble more poems than the days of the year. I always ask for a reason, for a purpose on why I do it. Someone finally solved this inquiry that has been galloping in my mind.
Tell me, how could you invite so many scars to live beneath your skin?

I have imposed that question to you on so many times, on so many occasions in which you always avoided answering. I see you, always nursing the wounds that ache you so much, how you treasure them compared to more blissful events in your life.

One midnight I lie awake with these thoughts swirling my mind and you suddenly spoke: “The tears make me more human than smiles.” Startled, I inquired for more. Your answer brought more inquiries that gushed inside my head and yet you remained silent once more.

Tell me, how could you open so many ribcages only to leave a part of yourself in them?

I wonder more and more and bask at your enigma, hoping to uncover some truth, maybe I could make some sense hidden in that thin veil of mystery you wear. It took some time before you spoke to me once again:

“I may have left a part of myself in them but that also meant that I lost a part of myself in them”

Finally, a response. I guess you had enough so you decided to speak up.

“That doesn’t justify the right for parts of you to live in so many hearts at once”

“Indeed. Leaving parts of me in the place of where I took parts of their hearts doesn’t justify the right to live in them.” You answered with heavy regret in your voice.

“But you still did it; you left behind remnants of you while acting as a cradle for wounds. Why act as the victim here?” my voice cracked as I pressed on.

“It’s because I know I was never born to be the cause of happiness, but I was born to be a cause of regret, I am the lesson they are taught with, the mistake that they will never forget.” You voiced with apparent pain.

“But why the wounds? Why do you wear so many wounds on your skin and treat them as if they are gems?” I ask while the tears start to accumulate in my eyes.

“It’s because I was meant to be a regret, not be a cause of brokenness. I take these broken pieces and in turn, I place a part of me in which I become a reminder for them to move on, I make them whole again.” There was no pain nor regret in your voice this time, only seriousness.

“Then doesn’t that mean you become brokenness itself?” I mustered the strength to voice these words out of my heavy heart.

“No. To others, I am named regret but for you, I am different. I may look broken to you, but to keep me from falling apart completely, you need to weave parts of this brokenness into your poetry. You are different; you are not fueled by regret. That’s what makes you so unique, that’s why I chose you. Take your poetry and intertwine some of my pain, let the world know how much I sacrifice for them. Do it for me.” You said with fleeting grace.

“Then what are you to me? If regret does not fuel me, then what does? ” I asked one final time.

“It is I, love.” You whispered.