I write because I cannot speak
cannot say out loud what I try to convince myself isn't true
I write and I bleed
thoughts and emotions
wet and raw and /there/
warmth slips down my face in a shaky line
I won't wipe
won't acknowledge is there
I'll look you in the eyes
splayed open
/bleeding/
     /real/
and avoid thinking about how the last time I showed these gorey parts of myself to someone else they left
/they left/
and they had /promised/
does it scare you too?
To know of the power you hold over me?
I try and I try and I try
And I still come out not knowing better
Hindsight saying I should have listened to my instinct
But I fight against it every time
I make the same mistakes again and again
Because I still have hope
Does that make me foolish?