I wanna write new poetry,
but words won't form new verses.
Random phrases cross my mind,
but none bond together to make sense.

Maybe it's the stress of exam week.
Maybe it's my personal problems.
Lack of inspiration or a muse.
I overthink my verses too much.

Why can't I write about fantasy and love,
or maybe about a struggle for inner peace?
Why can't I find a piece of emotion
to let myself go in a sweet melody?

Could it be because she left me?
Could it be the cold weather?
What's the reason I can't rhyme?
Is it that I need more time?

In the end here I sit
typing these words untrue
for I just wrote a poem
when I didn't think I could.

I remember
When you would get upset when I wrote angry poems.
When you loved my poetry.
When you called me your little worry bug.
When I called you crying.
When you called me crying.
When you told me you'd made a mistake.
When you told me you were scared.
When I was thousands of miles away and wanted to hold you so badly.
When we went to those concerts together.
When I broke my foot and you were so worried.
When we went to the park almost everyday.
When I told you I loved you.
When we first kissed.
When you held me while I cried.
When your world came crashing down around your ankles.
When I wiped away your tears and you wiped away mine.
When you were unsettled that I'd picked up what killed your favorite person.
When you picked up the same thing.
When you decided I wasn't worth it.

are the tattoos I etched
to mark my recovery.

And boy, did it hurt.

The white squiggles at my hips
wink at me every time I look down.
Don't look down!
As if.
I swear, they conspire with each other.

I'll never forget the very first one.
Shiny. Indignant.
I hugged my skeleton and wept.

Now I've grown accustomed
not to the deliberate finality of dropping my gaze
mesmerized by my slow evolution,
but to looking up.

I look at eyes and mouths
instead of the impossible circumferences
above my knees,
the ever shifting law.

Stretch marks
are the tattoos I etched
to mark my recovery.

Do I regret them?
Oh, a little bit always.

But it's sure as hell a story worth remembering.

I take up more colour than I used to,
and these- these are the lines that will never be filled in.

I earned them.

Monsoon thoughts are never ending,
constant inside, harder to hide.
when time doesn't pass.
all the clocks are left with empty hands.
and these are the driest drops of rain.
finding the creases inside of my brain.
where they mold themselves into pictures of you.
and time changes from brimstone to blue.

attraction is just
a synthetic reaction,
but we've got
*chemistry

I want to be inspired by something
I mean really inspired
To change something
Make something better.

I want to care about something
I mean really care
To know what it feels like to love something
More than anything.

I want to have great ***
I mean really great ***
To lose myself in someone else
In pleasure and placidity.

I want to feel something
I mean, anything really
To assuage this suspicion
That I don’t have it in me.

I want to dissolve
like the sugar
in my coffee.