I need to stop talking about you as if
you were dead,
could it be this is the only way to cope rather than knowing you're
still out there, somewhere, bleeding
shards of glass, grabbing for
something smoother, something
more stable, but the months pass by and shred away any chance you had
you become further and further away from who you are,
from what you were,
you're a shaky resemblance of your fathers past, an embodiment
of the pit inside your stomach and you're too
afraid to be alone in the dark and
in the light and
I'm afraid there's nothing
quite as terrifying as saying you're fine so many times you scream it while
you sleep or noticing
the erosion in everything; your
ex lover, your father, the bus driver,
the mirror, the degradation of you & i