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i want to tell you the truth  
everything hurts, my organs
are  filled with black rocks and
i can't write poetry without gaining
weight, sometimes i wake up
in the middle of the night trying
to convince myself that i'm still alive
i’ve stopped eating anything but
apples and your pastel pink tongue
i want to tell you the truth
that my heart is a collection of
boys who  didn’t ask for my name
only whispered words like beautiful
into my neck, only painted words
like obsession  on my spine
i want to tell you the truth
when i cross the streets i close my
eyes and the thought of dying
doesn't make me cry anymore
i want to tell you the truth
last friday i got so angry at you
that i nearly burned all of my
poems, i threw a plate at my door
and cleaned up the blood saturday
i want to tell you the truth
that i am made of stone, my hands
are never warm, my skin will be grey
my soul is aching because you’ve
made it empty
i want to tell you the truth
i still love you, i still care about you
but when you ask how i'm doing
i'll say that i don't know you anymore

but all you will hear is "i'm fine"
 Mar 2015 Mateadi Thabiso
a
so much like the paper, it crumples
it remains untouched but has been molested
trying to close itself up, until you came and
tore open the stitches and shed the
protection
so much like the paper, it falls
leaning on the words of another to live
their inscribed marks upon its open skin
scars not marks, wounds not scars,
because the wounds have not
closed yet

— The End —