All roads lead to the hospital…
To the room of your own conception,


Where you were pulled into the world by
unknown hands.

You claim it is your artistic style that makes us.
That positions the words on this page,
You say mine is too broken



Up.


All roads meet in your bedroom,
With abandoned bottles and shoes, the smell of old coffee filters,


You claim you are at odds with your creator,
With your creation.

And I am the muse who later came to **** you.

I am the voice you sought for reason

But silenced like a sedative.


All roads split at the old school building with memories
And hung up black and white photos with no pattern or placement with the false claim of being an instillation.


You are forever in those photos, in my mind, finger printed by your existence.

I  was sleeping on the floor, where you consummated your first relationship, and I wondered how these moments all get intertwined.

Me, your first real love, laying on top of your first time, with someone you used for a warm body to fill the void
That you created
For yourself.
All roads end with an unclean floor.