I used to write about smoking cigarettes
and stealing bottles from shopping centers-
about love that never deserved to exist,
and people who would now not recognize
the shape of my own being.

it's conflicting to constantly know
who you are today cannot compare to tomorrow;
and the thoughts that cause feelings of brilliance
are only echoes of past stupidity.

I'm supposed to hate myself for what I've done.

My bones should snap under the weight
of my own guilt, but there is none.

Perhaps I am incapable of feeling sorry,
even for myself, since no one else ever did.

Maybe I can't control my own demons,
because I never kept them in chains,
and it's only a matter of time
before karma catches me.

You will never understand what it took
to love You again,
and I will never comprehend why
It all left it in the first place.

We hold a thousand memories,
but the hundred I have molded on my own
burn and singe-
the sounds of your unanswered calls-
over and over-
releasing myself from a speeding car window,
losing myself in the bed that was never mine.

What would you say
if you could see the looks
on all of their faces?
Contorted and blurry by my own incoherence
and their inability to understand:
"Who are you, now?"

But I know myself.
I know I hold the anger of my father,
"You're pathetic" and "burning bridges"-
The loveless love of my mother.
The ability to disconnect from my own mind,
that has hindered me useless for so long...

You don't know me, and if you did,
these petal like lips would lay untouched, You
wouldn't believe in love
that the truth that created
the depiction of me,
would **** you.

And so I sit in silence.