im struggling and still saying
its alright to depend on these words
even if dependence is no form of freedom
and former independence doesn't like to
be called out by his first name so he
writes like a ghost and ghosts his friends
like they're lost in the woods and looking
for him or at least his corpse
i guess that depends on how far his willpower
is willing to bend before becoming a coward
too afraid to respond it's all choked up
nothing in his (my) throat but smoke and
he (i) choke on the ash and fall on my (his) ***
trying to grab the rock to hold onto but it
crumbles in my (his) hand and he falls
to the echoes of my friends' calls
into the darkness and the darkness transforms
he and i into i and he
a split sewn together and fraying again
he isn't me but i can't help but
be him when i want to be me
so i turn back to words on
pages that bring some semblance
of comfort and a voice
to the chaos in his head
and taste the vitriol in my mouth
before spitting it back out
because it may be filling but
it has no sustenance beyond
what a fog can offer instead
so i step into the morning fog
away from him who
i've come to hate and love as much
as i hate him
so that maybe someday soon
i will love him more than i hate him
but until then it's cold this morning
and i hear my friends in the woods