"Fake it 'til you make it"
has become
"Faking it IS making it"
and I have grown
weary
of this battle
against myself.

There is no chance of victory
and there is no
love
that will triumph.
Breathing is laborious.
My heart no longer strains through its cage.
My limbs are flaccid and my spine is weak.

All you will find,
should you dare to seek,
is an old carcass with rotting flesh,
a burnt bony cage
within which lies a skewered melting heart
oozing black mess.

I lost her.
She slipped like ashes through my fingers,
leaving only her fingerprints on my fingertips.

I am done trudging through her loss.
There is nothing ahead
and everything that lies behind is obsolete.

I have drawn the line.
I have written these lines.