Far to often I find that I spit my words out
Not to let them be known but to shun them from my brain
What's the point of picking careful words
When all that's left of them is stale, bitter, cold?
I find myself closing my eyes
Trying to imagine a better day
But days don't get better
Days can't get worse
Days steep in kettles
In till they are poured
Our hands are teacups
It explains all the burns
We stick out our tongues for a sip
Of the day that left in the empty spaces
Spaces we purposely put between our fingers
I chug the tea that is now cold
Reminding me of memories
That stuck to the leaves in a metal ***
I go to the garden
and pluck my lies and wrap them up
Here my love, take a bouquet
I swear, I swear, I swear.
I spit my words.
I drop my days.
I close my eyes.
And I can't be saved.