Hell, isn't it?
Your insides yearning to flee.
Don't give me that look, you ****!
You deluded yourself, not me.

Didn't I warn you?
Didn't I tell you to stop?
But you said you could handle it.
You said you'll never tap.

But why is this house now empty?
Where did the warmth go?
I told you it will never be easy.
But you opted to start the show.

Now you left me with nothing.
As you ran yourself to hide.
You just proved again what a fool I am.
For trusting you sublime.

she wrote love letters​
    when she was eight. her insides
    were all over.  once, she drank
    a bottle of tears until she drowned.
    but she didn't.
    she breaths in it.

    in the long grass, she walks naked through the strong wind
    as cogon danced against her skin,
    marking her in lace.

    years
    ago, she stopped writing letters.
    she drew her face across the wall
    and stared for hours until she could
    look at herself no more.

    i saw her
    on a rocking chair, singing softly as
    she looks far away. she sings
    the letters she used to write --
    how warm and clear the waters were,
    how gently the breeze whispered.

    she closes her eyes
    to remind herself
    how it is to be kissed for the first time.