We talked about things, my one-time lover and I.

Words. They floated in the air.
He read a poem to me.
Syllables of dreams and memories, succulent desires,
Death, venom, as well as more pleasant things.
The clouds upon which I danced,
Into rain they formed and fell
To an ocean under which I got lost and drowned.
Words made up everything.

He wielded them, like a tool, a weapon,
A scalpel that dissected me.
Oh, he’s so good at it, you should have seen it.
A pair of scissors to cut open my belly,
Let out my stomach, my gut, and my ******,
The whale that was singing in my body,
The forests, seas, lakes and deserts,
And all those little snakes and scorpions.
Some tweezers to make a fine specimen.
‘Beautiful.’ He commented, after the surgery’s nicely done.
His handwriting was all over my inside out, a grievance story:
Hope, lust, illusions, and horror.

Words made up everything.
They forged the daggers piercing through my rib cage, casually
Instructed by a never-be lover.
The drugs I turn to, the shelter I seek.
‘If I can find the exact words, then illuminated
Must be a way to end my pain.’
But words are the most useless things.
They made up nothing
Except for the shackles of my own self incarceration.

Then why do I keep scribbling?
For what am I without words?
How do I break the walls of this labyrinth,
And find the breadcrumbs leading back home
Where I am comforted and safe?
How do I understand the song of the whale
And nurture poppies and chrysanthemums off my wounds?
I am but a body forming words,
Formed of words.
‘Why don’t you write? You must write!’
So I strike a line across my skin
In search of the beginning of a new story.
The ink is fresh, flowing through my veins.
Words make up nothing,
They are just my trap, my poison, and my remedy.