I’ve always ached telling anyone that I have written traces of who I am out there for anybody to reach – they hardly do.
They’re not reading it anyway, and if mistakenly you read them all at once, you’ll accidentally unknot that underlying thread that connects my words together.
I’ve aged way beyond what I write, and heavier it is getting over me to keep writing and pouring over shit of who I’m becoming over again.
Teenage me wrote drafts of love letters I ended up sending anyway,
And none of the addressed ones deserved the least of what I intended to dedicate.
I’m devoid of what I used to overflow, and I’m all stiff and rigid, with no room for emotions – sarcastic about what they call love.
Softening to write what I feel out loud is rather absurd and pointless – yet it saves me anyway.
Only for myself, words sometimes flow to heal what’s beneath cracked up bandages and clots of wounds.
I’ve written about you before, and I’ll expose you in poetry and tear you apart cursed and haunted, before I decide it’s time for me to leave.
The last piece I wrote was about the last man I killed.
Enjoy reading it, if you’re next.
