i won’t call because it’s best for both of us
a sickness isn’t sanity until you dress it
you’re a scalding shower
good even though it hurts
and the leftover steam in the bathroom is a
bright enough question mark to bring me back
every **** time.
the best things aren’t planned
but waiting is driving a knife into my skull
i’ve laid pieces of myself at your feet
i never even knew were there.
do you realize you never returned them?
and i’m not even sure i want them back
i’ve grown so accustomed to being riddled with emptiness
i might tremble to the point of destruction at being whole again
although that wouldn’t explain the tremor
that always works it way down my arms
and into the ends of my worn fingertips
fingertips that pound keys and grip ***** pencils,
that trace my face, like an echo of your return
but that’s just a sick joke that lives in the pit of my stomach now
dark and small and smooth like a stone.
how do you open yourself up to someone you hardly know
when the pages of your mind
give even you nightmares now?
there’s this riddle about letting things you love go
and it’s making me wonder if that’s why you never chased after me
but i can’t call you anymore
i won’t
because its best for both of us.

-*k.c.