and I sit here waiting for the words to come,
spring back to life like the flowers that once laid in my rib cage did
and I pray to a God I've never even believed in to just give me back
the numbness that made words spill from me like water does when
cupped gently in your palms. I have become a metaphor of poets
and romanticism and it has stripped me of who I have ever been
willing to become. It has ripped out everything that has ever created me
and has destroyed anything that could ever be.
and I sit here waiting for the words to come
and I sit here and they don't.