All of whom you wish could witness
this shameful vulnerability of yours
won't.
They do not etch your name into their pages
in ritual repetition.
They do not reread the shameless writing
with emotional masochism.
They do not lay at night reliving your smile
in the light shapes dancing across their walls.
They do not wish for the end
because they hate what their story has become.
Not like you do, sad girl.
They do not search for you.
Your documents are scattered
deep inside their fading history
burnt and blocked
exactly how they prefer it.
They toast to forgetting their sorrows.
Their guilt is a crumpled letter under every bottle of wine
they get too caught up to finish.
They've long become bored visualizing those fingers
groping their breaths for apologies
by scribbling poorly written prose
with blood from underneath the nails.
You've bitten them raw, sad girl.
You've tasted the bitter grime
from relentlessly scraping ***** windows
They still do not see you.
They still do not want to see you.
They won't ever knock on your door
and ask to review you.
Lock up and step outside-
there's beauty in the blank last page of leaving.