In Hindsight

A lips whispering for truce under bleeding eyes

Exhale an air of hypocrisy hanging like dusts,

Marring the air of no lies with a hidden disgust;

An episode of memory, what have we done?

I can see through your chest, and a heart like that can only beat

For a white flag bloodied by my mind on your feet,

My hands cuffed, legs chained, a face masked with grinning façade,

The only face you’ll ever tolerate under a roof of slavery.

So do I break your shell,

Anticipating a monster,

Or warm you for a while

Hoping for an angel inside?

I guess it doesn’t matter now anyway, mumbling regret in hindsight,

When the pieces of your heart scatter under my gaze,

After a clash of desires, truths and falsities,

A puppet of belief against a slave of the skin.

Perhaps one day we’ll heal again, rewinding the clock for us two,

Back to when intentions intertwine our eyes and fingertips;

But for now, let my dry eyes pierce your thick skull in my head

Find the hidden doors through your labyrinth heart

So that someday, maybe

After a dinner, in this old house

We can retake this scene

And end our war.

I am a blogger, poet, artist and an aspiring novelist. Through Iridescent Anatomies, I advocate for idea journaling, therapeutic writing and other introspective work.

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