I can’t write anymore without a string attached to the end of my eraser.
A forceful push to the paper, I just wish the lead would break.
So I could blame what’s broken for why I could never finish anything.



I used to box myself into spaces where no one could find me.
Pretending I was lost within the world, while I was only trying to find myself.
She used to call my name almost sobbing, but I could never answer.




I got lost inside a simple geometry question yesterday.
While trying to recopy the symmetry of Earth, and I guess I never got far.
Too focused on the clay melting into my skin, wondering if texture is real.





Wondering if feeling is just another one of those things I never tried.




And maybe I just forget sometimes, forget how to look at the world.
But maybe I want the details, instead of misted fogged answers and crescent shaped descriptions.
But I rather look for something not found in the sky, then believe that the ocean could hold anything.



&.




I used to click the undo button, just to make sure the words on the paper were real.
That the mistakes, that the black typing… wasn’t just another detail I seem to imagine and illustrate.
I forget to spell check these days, just to see if anyone will catch the errors.





If you’ll proofread my life and tell me my details are all wrong.






And I skipped Sign Language today because my hands couldn’t get up the courage to say anything.
So I drew a picture instead.
Something too colorful for such a rainy day.





But I swore you loved it.



&.





I used to watch you with the tip of my colored pencil.
Wondering how long it would take me to design you into something far more original.
But I drew your heart all wrong.





Another something I’d never finish.




I left it on the wooden table that day.
Next to Indian ink and a broken clay pots.
I saw your fingerprint the next day.





But it only crushed me that the arches in your skin didn’t match mine.




And I can’t write sentences anymore, when you’re yet another fragment.
While I stand outside often waiting for a full moon, just so the light didn’t seem so dim and distant.
And I held my own palms that day, cutting the string attached to the eraser.









And sometimes feeling unfinished, is knowing you’re still alive.

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