My body is a canvas—red drips off of my fingers—blood, like spilled wine. And I am drunk off of my own despair
until the mess is cleaned.
But never is it clean enough.

Just slap a band-aid over it.
The cut isn’t there if you can’t see it.
It’ll heal on its own.
It’ll heal.
It’ll heal.
Someday, it’ll heal.

Because of this
I have found that wine stains
In white carpet
Are much harder to remove
Then mother made it seem.
And that even when you have scrubbed relentlessly at the faux fur on your favorite, now pink rug, you will never get the snowy, cold, and blank white that you once adored. You either have to spill the rest of your wine and accept that you have ruined the rest of the rug, just to make it even. or throw it out. Just to waste your money on a new one that you will destroy the exact same.

I stand
I clutch the ground
the same ground that you and I
once walked together.

and a month ago
if you could've asked me
what life was
without you,
I would've said
"impossible."

and that was the answer you wanted.

a week ago,
if you were to ask me the same question,
I would reply
"bitter."

for I did not understand
that the ground
we once walked on
together
was a path paved
for me

so, instead
I let you take my hand
and pull me through
a terrible maze
that was not crafted
for you.

there is a fine line between life and death,
and I would like nothing more than to walk it with you.

alone I lay,
fantasizing
about who I once was,
who we could've been.
your hand rests still,
clasped in mine.
and for a moment,
at least I can pretend,
everything
is finally
what it once was.

I could dig
into my own skin,
into my soul,
searching
for the pieces of you
that I know
linger
still inside me.

and I could try
to piece them back together
in breathless effort
to recreate the version of you
that I long to love once again,

but
we both know
deep down
you are no longer you
and I have stayed me.

and if we were truly
a match made in heaven
how did the angels
find a way
to separate us
so easily?