Majestic scars

There are people who have been your heaven.
There are dates you remember more than your birthday.
There are scars that are majestic with your skin.
There are memories that are an energy boost when you drink them all at once, after a long time.
There are steps that are the whole way.

But those people could have been hell. It was raining for those days. Those wounds were bleeding. Those moments burned. That journey was dragging your soul.

The minutes passed and you didn't call. It was Christmas and I never sat down to eat with you again. I contacted you and you declined my calls. Everything was cold and lonely, and it kept hurting. The conclusion was that you didn't come back, that you didn't want to know who I was becoming.

With the idea that spring always returns and that flowers grow and wither, it is clear to me which of these two stages we are in.

I didn't plan how I was going to bloom. I didn't imagine where I wanted to be in a few years. I didn't stop punishing myself for your crimes, but that didn't stop me from pleading not guilty.

So even if I don't dedicate this poem to you now,
you are the source of my inspiration.
You are the least important thing in the balance.
I had to take away your importance in order to see the sky, to cheer celebrating these ten years, to tattoo that my wolves were (and are) chasing you, to remember you like caffeine and not as a lack of dopamine, to steal every teaching from the path.