I no longer burn
in places that scathed
so easily. My body has erased
every trace of me
laying waste to  space.

I am trying not to write
meaningless things, the way I
have in the past but
I have become
a stain on shirts, a spot
of discolouration on skins.

You see me
as a Rorschach test but I am only spilled
ink that means something
out of sheer
coincidence.

I no longer trust the little
pulses sitting in my brittle
wrists.
I no longer believe
it is tangled
to something greater