I don’t write as much
as I used to anymore; 
I no longer feel the need
to fill the spaces in between
the barren trees of my ribs,
to wield metaphors
like a flashlight, a shield, a rosary,
whispering, watching,
always waiting

no one told me
that even happiness
comes with a cost;
you steal the words
right out of my mouth,
but I don’t complain because now
there are flowers blooming
beneath my eyelids,
and the sun tickles my feet,
and I can finally sleep
because I am enough.

I don’t miss the sadness,
but I was fond of the ink
and its truth; 
there has always been
a beauty in bleeding.