I try every once in a while.
To tear down these skin bound barriers.



Reattach the things that used to make sense.
That no longer hold a place in an unused notebook.



I write you sometimes.
To re-explain the explanations.



Just so I can make sense to myself for once.




While you tell me everything I could never do.
When I did so much just to be your everything.



Only to know that I was never anything.
Always.
Nothing.




I scream out daffodil lungs.
Puking up perfumed colors.



Wondering if the insides really are what counts as beautiful.



Thumbing the stitches with loose fingers.
Wondering where I’ll fall apart next.



Not ever expecting you to be there to pick up the pieces.
Cross-stitching every lie you ever spoke from your tongue.



I’d tie you a truth to a balloon just to watch you float away.



Knowing that all my words meant nothing to you.
When you couldn’t find the meaning between the stitched constellations
& Mixed taped secrets.



Because I’ve run out of lines to tell you you’re selfish.



Running out of lines to tell you I can’t do this anymore.

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