I held my tongue.
As often as I could.
While dating the skinny-faced girl.

Sure.
When she twirled me around,
I found myself out of my own head.

And
Sure.
Even when she was found dead,
in the comfort of the bed,
in that house of hers,
doused with secrets and drug-fueled murmurs.

It's stirred something deep down inside.
Whirred up all of my hiding hidden emotions.

Sure.
Sowed.
And show how action over devotion
determines who's actually in charge.

Ugh.
So I barged into my mildew-made storage unit.
And I used it to plop down
And sit.
And see.
On a concrete floor.
With nothin.
Just me.
and I mangled me.
Exsanguinated.
Strangled.
With bloodshot eyes.
Enough.
Enough to manage to see how
hate
and hard hell
can create an icecold shell
over everything I ever wanted to be.