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It's always this time around when I'll be writing eulogies to what once was —every note, every letter in every verse— comes with a thousand memories and emotions I have to feel and let go of
It's always this time around when I'll be burying dead versions of me after being told it wasn't the one they wanted —every limb, every smile scratched in every lips— comes with a thousand wishes and prayers I have uttered just to be accepted
It's always this time around when I'll be taking note of how less and less special I become even through the countless masks I wore —every crack, every paint slathered down the fragile glass not to cover my face but to reflect it to the world— comes with a price sometimes too heavy for me to pay for with my life
It's always this time around —I have written countless eulogies with nothing but my ill-will to keep living despite being dead to everyone else
It's always this time around when I'll be dealing with poison I could have thrown out so long ago, from the beginning but because I stayed for as long as I could it's always this time around when I'll be trashed for a number of things people don't want to see in me and it's always this time around when I let them be
