I don't know how to make these problems known
when I don't have the words,
the voice, or the tone.
But I think I recognize this path;
all these familiar stones
spell out warnings that are tripping me down.

I'm the one who isn't keeping pace;
you're still holding your stride.
At least that's what it seems like
when I'm looking from behind.
I think I'm losing flavor
or maybe that's my taste buds.
I feel like an intruder
once again worried about soap suds.

I had less scars when we first started,
unbelievable but true.
Now, I don't know if I have the fingers
I need to hold onto you.
If we walk unthreaded
our steps become unmatched
and when I cannot find a rhythm
it's hard to know
that this will last.

Still so desperate for your touch,
it screams under my skin.
I don't know how you sit in silence
with all these sirens.

I need you to rub my spikes down
They're peaking through.

Untangling the knots in my stomach.
I don't know what caused this to plummet.
I don't know why I shouldn't have done it.
But I shouldn't.

Your presence there made me uneasy.
I'm worried the the reason is ******.
But I can't let myself off that easy
for your sake.

If I could beat on your chest
to resuscitate your heart
I would

But I can't
there's no going back
and I don't know
how to fix this

or how to leave...

I'm sorry you only got
           1 year of freedom.
I'm sorry I was a coward
            and wouldn't stand up to him
            on your behalf
                  (and mine.)
I'm sorry we couldn't be closer
           when you had so few
           people in your corner.
I'm sorry I joked about taking
            your ****** autonomy away from you.






I'm worried for your son.
He cannot go to his father.

You expected romance from a skater boy.
That really is on you.
What did you think
he was going to do?
Buy you roses?
Make you dinner?
Give you something sweet,
heartfelt?

You expected romance from a barfly.
What a silly thing to do!
It's your fault you wanted more
when he wants nothing
more from you.
He doesn't want
your stupid flowers,
fancy dinners,
heartfelt things.
He just wants
to go play pool
where all the drunken people sing.

You expected romance from a punker.
You learned this lesson once.
They attempt to write you poetry
not knowing how to rhyme with 'love.'
They won't send you sweet songs
Cause they'd rather faces melt.

Really
the fall
you experience now
is from wanting something else.

Where are the strings I can cut?
Where are the embers I can smother?

How can I put this in a jar
and put it on the shelf
like you can?

I know I pulled the trigger
and I must eat the bullet
but how are you able to drag
your own dead body through it?