I always write about my own reflection
and consistency-
but mostly how ****** up life has been for me.
It seems as if the only stream of conscious I know
goes backwards.
Can I write about other things?
Why don't I ever write about other things?
Like the way my skin aches for you-
the fact we awake at the same time every morning
I feel as if you were another part of me-
but we have all seen this already.
So can I write about the now?
Right here.
In this moment
the only thing I can think about is the past.
How my coffee was once so hot it burnt my tongue
and is now so cold that my lips don't remember the taste.
It's funny how things change form.
How something can taste so sweet, turn cold-
and leave you nothing but bitter in the end.
Now I'm thinking about you-
no one else knows who you is, but me.
The reminder of my past is mimicked in your tone-
the mouth that feeds your troubled mind
brings up feelings I would rather not replay.
Shady, in the shadows with ****** tendencies
that silhouette my smile
You shook my spine and struck my nerves
now I'm racking my brain on how to separate.
See, the past is the only thing I know,
The only thing that is to be known
for I have evidence it is there.
"I think therefore I am"
so the only things I know are in the past.
The here and now
is still the past once the moment is gone
and all these letters and metaphors above
are all just pieces of my memory now.
Aren't you tired of looking back?
Yes.
But it is all I know for sure.
You are not.
The future is not.

My hair is in knots again
I try to brush out the tangles
but the teeth are too weak
I try to brush the taste of you away
but my teeth are too weak.
It's been one week since I didn't have to think
about the wreckage you instilled in my bones
but here I am now
watching as my mind goes blank
and my coffee turns cold-
I should've listened when you said nothing
should've known that was the answer all along.