Prena Poetry

I take care of myself the way I once used to take care of the minds that I ought to be in love with. I place flowers next to my bed and hang the brand new canvasses up the wall. I do so many things, to make myself feel better and feel happier, understanding that no one is going to be happy for me, on days when all I can do is get out of the bed and comb my hair.

Then I contemplate about the billion universe revolving inside my chest that begins to hurt at 1am, but then it must be just the hunger, I assure myself. There is a picture of my mother on the table, which makes me think of the numerous times in the kitchen when she told me that the other one of the world will never be like me. I do wish I had taken her words more seriously, but then I would never have learned the lessons that had been awaiting me.

I know alot now, yet I quite easily miss the younger version of myself, the girl who assumed courage to be woman with a gun in her mind but was atleast unaware of what pain really felt like. I wish I could hug that girl, and thank her, for being so brave and so kind, even when a dozen pair of eyes and handshakes failed to notice the torn up paper crown she wore to school everyday.

Now, I cannot go back to mend a hundred things I broke neither I can leap into the future and save myself. But here is what I can do, I can love and I can be kind towards the mind and body I own. I can take things slower, maybe read a note or a two, smile at my friend, pick up the clothes and breathe on days like this.