every guilt trip you’ve hung above my head is what keeps me slouching.
the words pile out of your mouth
my heart won’t slow down,
I'm melting into my bedroom floor,
but adrenaline makes me want to turn around.
your hands grace the railing
as the screen door hinges shut
long gone,
forever wishing that pit in my stomach would have been enough.

i wish i told her
how much i loved her poetry;
her poetry was music to my ears
and calligraphy to my eyes,
no matter how messy her handwriting.
each was a masterpiece,
each was a song,
each told a story,
regardless of how illegible;
and i can't stand knowing
that i'll never get to fall in love
with her art ever again.