One time, I was asked: how can it be possible to transmute pain into poetry?
I was stupefied by the question.
But it made me conceive.
How can one write such good poetry out of torment?
I have already found the answer to this question.
By the time of affliction and anguish of my affection,
I knew then that pens and papers are the only release I can ever manage.
I knew then that I cannot hurt back the person who inflicted me such pain.
And that for the life of me, I can just write until I am hurting no more.
To turn the man into a poetry while I am making myself believe that he merits it.
To be a writer of our love until the end of our story.