Writing has become my safe haven
and my sarcophagus all in one breath-
these emotions are purged from my chest
so I end up feeling empty again.
I am tempted to write the same poem
over and over but I stop myself.
I wonder if things such as this
can be as good as they once were
but that is just an image in my head
that will never become reality.
This page has ruined me
for I was never the same before
it tainted my skin
and imprinted upon my retinas
the misconstrued intentions
of a golden thumbed wordsmith
all of which I am not.
The knife in my chest bleeds ink
but I think it's running out now-
there's not much left of what keeps me alive
and I am choking on these words you say to me.
My heart beats too often for your words
that I read on the page like eulogy
but my mind knows better
than to engrave your name next to mine just yet.
I'm not the only basket case in this equation,
not the only one addicted to the idea of
going backwards and starting anew.
Things cannot grow backwards,
flowers only bloom or die
they're only consistent if you water them
and these tears seem to have ran out
my mouth is too dry to speak
I'm having trouble keeping up with these thoughts.
They are like maps, drawn out in the back of my mind
but I'm not sure which way to read it-
my memories do not work on North or South,
not even East or West
they only know forwards and backwards.

These words don't seem to fit together
or flow in a way that they're supposed to.
The more I think too much about them,
the less they seem to make sense.