there are sheets of paper lying scattered around my room
they are to you
the lines are filled with words untold and
things i could never tell you with a straight face
it's like i took a blade and cut up my heart into
thin enough slices to read
the black pen is blotched and splattered
i couldn't stop my hand from shaking
there is one letter for every day of the past week
i'm tempted to leave them around
see if you find them or not
see if you get the hint that you are the cause of things
i don't feel anything after i'm done writing
i'm done with it
i have spilled my blood too many times to count
i drink a fine wine called bleach to get rid of the taste of you