You made me a poet,
But not in this way you think.
No, because to be a poet means that every fucking time I look at you,
I see the man who caused me so much.
I see my past.
I see my present.
I see my future.
And I'll make sure you won't be with me in the last.

Yeah, you made me a poet-
A poet who desperately needs to bleed themselves on the ragged paper,
To carve their words because maybe, in this way, they'll be able to feel heard,
To promise that this is the end.

You say you're sorry.
Dammit.
I say I'm sorry:
That I need to live my already miserable life stuck beside you,
I'm sorry that I have to be related to you,
I'm sorry for every time I thought you'd change,
I'm sorry because I was fool enough to even think that maybe I would be the reason.

So yes, you made me a poet,
But not the vital one or the one who looks at everything as if they were looking at a beautiful rose.
No, you made me a poet of those who drain all their blood and hope their soul will remain in their body long enough to function.
You made me a poet who, when they see a rose, admire how strong it must be because no one notices its scars.
Nobody wants the rose to sting them-
They only enjoy the beauty above, and that below is removed as if it were not part of it.

You made me a poet who regards every detail,
Who sees beyond the surface.
And maybe I should thank you for this,
But I would never be thankful for how you made me sorry I exist.
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