i want to cut myself
open, and pour out every
word i thought about
telling you but never did

and stitch myself
up without anyone's help,
and clean away everything
i have depended on to fill
empty spaces, and replace it
with something new

i want to paint over my
wounds so that i don't have
to be reminded of what
i went through to get here

i want to be beautiful without
you, i want to be courageous

There is a point to
all that I am doing and
it's always for you.

It's been awhile
since I've seen your face
in all that it is --
your inviting dimples,
the flecks of gold in your eyes,
the pinkish tones in your lips
-- and I can't take much more of it.

I shouldn't be thinking of all the
what-ifs and should haves
but sometimes I can't help but
feel as if there could have been
more if we had just asked.

I hate to say this, baby
but we're just clinging on
to the last few bits
that keep us whole
but not even "I love you"
can fix us anymore.

It's odd to think that
among everything inside
the universe, I still matter.

It's the way it creeps into your brain
and intoxicates your thoughts
and triggers unwanted emotions
and inhibits your every move
leaving you paralyzed from
the neck down.

And there's nothing you can do
except take the red or blue pill --
a temporary solution to
a lifelong illness
that will stop at nothing to
devour all the good inside you.

I just wish it would stop
and allow me to breathe
and keep my chest from feeling
as if a thousand needles are lodged inside.
That's my small request.
Why can't I have that?