I regret becoming in love with the flow of a pen. I regret saying I wanted to become a poet. To say “Let me put my pain out for other to enjoy.” I should’ve never stepped on a stage. My first slam I had tears roll down my face. I thought it was because I did well. Looking back, maybe it was my soul crying. Crying for ripping open the closet door. Beating dead skeletons and dragging them into the light. Scraping the bones on the pavement to paint a chalk portrait. Maybe my soul cried for embarrassing my past and throwing it out and chumming the waters. Waiting for the shark to tear be apart, devouring my memories. Memories becoming gladiators fighting for pride and acceptance on a colosseum stage. I’ve had people cry over some of my poems. I could feel their tears sting and evaporate into the air. The snaps from the crowd was just them grinding my skeletons. Each snap, crackle, tear. Every “Yesss, get it! Go In…. YESS”  was a cheer for more of an obliterated soul, more blood & ink. Chanting for more pain. I regret opening my soul. Cutting shit out like a snowflake to be put up and hanged. Hanging my demons, lynching my past.

I regret focusing and crafting my pen to focus on love. When all you know is pain and loneliness. Thats the same as love. right? I regret falling into the idea of being in in love. Don’t get me wrong I love, love. I’m just regretting the wrong ones.

Opening my pen and ink to make a woman  a girl like me, notice me. I just wanted to be noticed.

I regret wanting.

I regret writing.

I regret.

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