Flowers grow between my ribs,
and in the cracks of my mind.
While those around me call it beautiful,
it is getting hard to breathe.

you weren't a
book for me
to read

you weren't a
movie for me
to watch

you're still being
written
you're still being
made

so am i
and i'm so sorry
for expecting
you to be
a finished product

when i sit here
on the
potter's wheel

i used to think
i was so
clever

but these tears
are evidence
of my stupidity

all of our memories
are reconstructions
of things
we think to be

maybe that's why
i thought
we'd always be a
we

i am looking
for okay
in all the
wrong places

you don't hold me
as tight as
you used to

and i can feel
my pieces
starting to slip
apart

i think so

because despite everything
you've put it through
my heart
still loves you