You are never
clear with me
about
What it is you want.
I always have to guess.
Is this just a game to you?
Is my heart a play thing;
somewhere for you to make a mess?
Or
maybe it's a dream
meaning
It's all made up
And I should wake up.

I want to
Give you
All
Of me.
But I gotta know
You want me
I
Gotta know you
Need me
Know that
You can complete me.

I'm ready to become
Whole again

tired of


Splitting


Up
;

tired of

trying

  To

   Piece

    Back

Bits of my soul,
Fragments
S h a t t e r e d by senselessness.

blacked in sin.

I need my peace back.
I don't like to ask
But
I hate to guess
I'm wondering -
Can you be that?

Summer, summer tomorrow, comes with expectation
A day doth bring here its heat
She stares from the heavens with electricity
With a breeze lithe and scarce, it walks over the earth

Stately and respectful in her stride
She hides behind clouds, when out of sight
Her beauty tempers the mind and calms the nerve
A weather so delicate, not a degree or ray less or more

But, when comparing her breath
The heavens turn and stare, wondering what despair
Plagues the incomplete soul and a heart so bare
Like moons hidden from her nascent stare

Scorning the cold moon, the torn heart
Looks for the summer, while crying for heaven's arms

I always tried to explain.
"I'm sick"
"I'm sorry"
"I'm trying"

But she doesn't know. How would she? She knows boybands and finger hearts and working just hard enough.

That's not her fault (its really not) but it's easier to be angry, indignant than whatever I really am.

Her words and hate and the ever-present ether wrap around me and I can't tear them off so I go for the shirt (this is what my mother would later use as my benchmark for crazy) and the sound of tiny threads coming through tiny loops lasts a joyous second and I can breath and I am gone.

I am back and I remember that the words and hate and doom are still there and now with them is a symbol of just how wrong my self is.

I sit motionless but I'm running.

I kept the carcass for months. In a corner out of sight, to be seen but only by the trained eye.
Some days it was scolding but some days it was proof, a purple heart, a trophy of battles lost.

Some days I miss it. In my mind it's hanging from the rafters (not in the dead way).  It's the retired jersey of an athlete who in the end wasn't very good but oh she tried to be.

what to say
when words mean nothing
even to my own ears

When you said
you wanted us an end,
my heart raced,
skipped a beat,
died a bit.

I was torn-
a little,
in two,
in pieces.