Former lover girl
why isn't my agony soft?
Treasure stands abandoned at the edge of armageddon where my memories go to rust. My heart lays here pickled in pomegranate and still beating where my delusion is raw. Why isn’t my agony soft? My lungs grew into an orchard for fools who grant wishes and vagabonds still strong enough to hope. Is it the edge or is it the center offering the key to enter the kingdom in our guts? I sit around the fire counting the tree stump rings mocking my empty finger.
Prompts featured, thanks to this lovely poet:
Hasna Shahani // dewdropdiaryy // why isn’t my agony soft?
This cracked me open.
“Why isn’t my agony soft?” — that line lives with me now. The tension between grief and beauty, between fire and garden, between pickled hearts and empty fingers… you’ve spun suffering into something feral and sacred.
There’s a richness here that makes pain feel textured — not romanticized, but rooted. Like the orchard lungs. Like rusted treasure. Like a kingdom built in the gut, not the sky.
Thank you for making room for this kind of ache. It’s strangely comforting to find my own bruises echoed back in someone else’s myth.