I am at the edge
of uncertainty
peeking down
into the abyss
questioning whether
or not this fall
would **** me.

My reflection
has become
a stranger
for I do not recognize
the mangled flesh
from opened tissues
where scars now litter
my skin.

My voice is a song
without words
and the musician in me
desires to play along
to the rhythm
of a failing heart
but we are not in tune.
There is no beat.

Yet
we dance the night away
with bottles of ale
searching
for stories to tell
but there are never
any happy endings.

There are just sudden pauses
like commas edited
into our lives
because we aren't sure
where a sentence is going
but we do know
that we don't want it to end.

This is me.
I am the author
of a fantasy with no title.
A living regret
with all my failures
tattooed across my chest.

The familiar voice in my head
screaming...
I was here.
I existed.