I wrote a poem about the highest of highs and trippiest of lows.
I wrote a poem about inhaling the ashes of a burned lover and how all that was left, were the charred remains of a once lit flame.
I wrote a poem about your eyes and the wormhole I drowned in.
How the walls grew hands and pulled at my shirt, my arms,
How my skin is now marked by your fingertips,
Your hands, the only ones that fit accordingly to my body.
I wrote a poem about how heartbreak has stitched itself into unfamiliar places
I wrote a poem about how I am hard to Love,
About how my heart beats abnormally, taking a pause between beats- Lub...d-dub-
I wrote a poem about how my ex lovers have settled into my body,
Their words continue to resonate in my mind.
I wrote a poem about how I trip over my appearance and how the world is beautiful, but we're poisoned apples, rotting slowly with worms eating holes out of us.
I wrote a poem and no matter the words that poured out of me, I was still full of emotions that continue to abandon me, wake me up in a sweat and in tears
Heartbreak and sadness meet me by the end of my bed.
They hold hands and smile at me, the scene before them, almost artistic.
I have become nothing, but a painting described as innocent and free of any emotion that doesn't resemble one of a woman.
I have become something filled with anger, resentment, and hostility.
I have become the end of the world, my fires burning my body, your fingerprints finally falling off with my melted skin.
I have become an art piece placed in a gallery, waiting to be critic-ed.
I have become a lost memory, forgotten like a message in a bottle, thrown away into the middle of the pacific ocean.
