Enter; the woman,
Her skin covered in words,
Searching for new language.

She seeks more,
To fill in the voids of her skin,
Left by so many forgotten lovers.

Abandoned by love,
She seeks refuge
In the distant memories.

She has long forgotten
Who she was,
And who she was planning to be.

She looks for new words
To fill the emptiness in her heart,
And the longing in her soul.

And now, her skin
Is another blank canvas
For others to paint their thoughts on.

Why am I doing this anymore?

In a time of change,
Of never-ending pain,
Why do I still call you?

Why do I let you listen
To stress work gives me,
To the worries I have about my future?

I don't think
I'd call it love.

But I think
It's more than a friendship.

I love you, I do...

But I know you don't. Not in that way.

Because you see fragments,
Small pieces of nothing.

And I can only see the world,
Destroyed with a single touch.

I'm sorry.

Tonight, my thoughts
Are so clouded
And stormy
That I can't see the lighthouse,
The way out of the storm.

If you saw all the blank pages
I tried to write,

The empty drafts
Without words,

You'd realize I'm not perfect?

So why must you insist that I am?

Why am I held to such a high expectation,
Where anything less than perfection is wrong?

Where I'm wrong?

And, more importantly,
Could I ever be enough for you?

Could I ever be something more,
Anything more, than a "failure" ?

A blank slate,
A fresh start.
Full of potential.

Once upon a time,
I had hope.
I thought things could change.

What does it matter now, though?
You don't care.
And, quite frankly, neither do I.

For you see, potential is one thing.
But the outcome tends to be
Completely different.

Sure, I could change,
But so could you.
Live a life full of lies.

Instead, we starve ourselves,
Constantly craving a glimmer,
A slight hint of affection.

You and I,
We could change.
But why don't we?