I am
a multitude of selves
determined to find
the one
that you wanted.
I am
more safe than sorry
and I
have always been
more sordid
than saintly.
The softness that resides in me
is scarce
but it's yours.
This softness is
the storm cloud over your head
and the ache
you've been drinking about.
This won't kill you
but it'll make you
bleed.
This is
the tiredness that sleep
can't fix,
this melancholy,
this melody,
the holes in butterfly nets.
We are
faulty dreamcatchers.
I can't tell
if this has been calculated
or careless
or which thought makes me more
sick of myself.
But there is something to be said
about a hope
that refuses to die
even after you've shown it
where it is to be buried.
Sometimes I'm not even sure
what I'm sorry for,
but I've learned to say it
just in case.
I was never your baby,
we were just
killing
time.