My Tears

I wish I was a poet.

That when I put pen to paper the words came with ease and the hurricane that is ripping through the memories and the pain would come to an end.

If I was a poet I could use my words to tear down the wall you have built and make you understand.

But I am not a poet, so my tears will have to do.

I wish I was an artist.

That when you looked at my paintings you saw the blues, the blacks and the purples.

That when you saw them you knew that those colors have become the bruise where my heart once was.

But I also want you to see the red.

The red that represents the scar that starts on one side of my aorta and wraps around my heart until it reaches the other side.

But I am not an artist, so my tears will have to do.

I wish I was a songwriter.

My song would be in D minor and the words that I cannot say would become the notes that you find yourself humming every time you think of me.

If I could write a song, every word would have a hidden meaning that only you would understand.

But I am not a songwriter, so my tears will have to do.

But if I was a poet, would you even stop to read?

Would you stop to pick up the rubble the hurricane left behind?

Or would it lay there to rot until I got the courage to pick it up and put it in the darkest corner of my brain.

If I was an artist, would you stop to look at my painting and take in the colors that I put there just for you?

Or would you hang your head and walk on by?

Pretending you didn’t see it?

Just like you pretend that you didn’t break my heart.

If I was a songwriter, would you listen to what I wrote?

Would you let the notes seep into your heart?

Would you understand the words?

Or would you ignore my attempts to make sense of what you‘ve done to me?

I guess it doesn’t matter, for I am not a poet, an artist or even a songwriter.

I am nothing but a girl, picking up the pieces and for now

                                                              My tears will have to do.