You left your typewriter in my apartment,
Straight from The Tortured Poets Department.
Your antics made you look so classic,
Lost in the world of your semantics.
My veins of pitch black ink at a chokehold,
As I yearn to begin again with a new fold.
At your worst, I was here first.
As I enter into evidence, the story of us.
I had to recall why I made such a fuss.
The allure of you had me drawn to you,
Pulled by a siren’s call.
Rising from the waves, at the brink of night
I left it all.
I wonder how you ended up with me,
Hatred spread like roots from a twisted tree.
I know you inside and out,
I don’t know how I survived all those sweet nothings
right out your tainted mouth.
Remember when you pushed me over a stout?
The first cracks in this happy-ever-after,
The silence that swallowed my laughter.
They say,
What’s not broken, don’t fix it.
Kintsugi finds beauty in the broken,
But the crimson-laced pieces,
The caricature of our faces,
Bolted into the typewriter’s fresh white pages.
Shattered and broken,
were left as my only token.
