I'm floating in amnesia
I can't remember
the last time I took a breath.
I'm emptying my eyes
through these tears,
until they're hollow —
so hollow that you wouldn't know
that vacancy could ever feel so full;
so full of emptiness.
This ever growing mayhem
cannot be contained
within my brittle body.
My scars might break open
the next moment.
I'm not very sure if I know
where they came from.
I know I'm afraid —
I'm so afraid of letting them see
the void I carry within.
I can't let them see
that my lungs
are pale sheets of broken muscle,
my heart is a shattered mirror,
scattered and buried
in the seemingly bottomless black
of my broken body.
Sometimes I remember my memories,
the screams and the nightmares and —
you.
I see you through veiled fences,
laughing with crinkled eyes
shining in a new shade of blue;
glowing with another
bittersweet betrayal leaking out
in your unshed tears.
You hold my hand
when I'm about to fall into chasm,
your precarious grip faltering,
your careless eyes vivid
and abyss-deep.
And you remember to let go.
I remember you let go,
and turned away
and I know your strength
because you never looked back.
I know the skyless ocean
is your home because I've bee there,
floating in something
I can't quiet remember anymore.
But you tell me it's amnesia
and I can't remember your name,
I can't remember
to remember something
— someone who can have
the precise blue of your old old
old eyes,
almost as though
they're too young
but I can't remember the difference
between old and young
but you seem so young and so old and —
so beautifully, delicately human.
I can't remember you letting go,
it's as though I'm insane and I am.
I am insane but why do you tell me I'm not?
My delusions are wilder,
they make me see me if you let go.
But please, please don't let go.
I'm not weak and pathetic
and I promise to forget you
(because it's the only thing I'm good at)
but will you never go?
