old scars, picked and bleeding.
a half empty bottle of whiskey,
violence in my headscape, escaping unnoticed,
and i wait for the trueness of my own emotions.
they won't come, she said.
they weren't here in the first place,
and if they were i'd throw them out
and lock the door without a second glance.
i know what's missing but i'm stubborn.
i don't let myself have as i'm a have-not,
i haven't had a chance to get out as much,
not like i really did before anyway.