Black ink drips into clear water; it diffuses.
I am a pebble, thrown,
Skimming the surface until it loses;
I am submerged but not alone.
There is blackness all around me,
Thin but clearly evident.
Water bodies are my happy places;
Black is a lack of color- a numbness.
I could dive into the ocean,
But apathy would follow my path.
I am running, breathing heavily,
But I can't escape the crawling black.
There is an inkwell inside everyone,
But mine- I have acknowledged it.
Try as I have to escape the thoughts,
It latched onto the acknowledgment.

Once in my life, a few years past,
I dove directly to the black,
Hating the world outside my water glass-
The only way to block the mass.

Since then, the ink has followed me,
Bodies of water to water bodies,
Creating a film through which I see,
A subtle, haunting apathy.

We're not so different, you and I.
There is an inkwell inside everyone.
You are sitting on the lid of yours.
From mine, I am on the run.

Cracking through the skin that was once soft to the touch,
Tearing at the corners of the lips you loved so much,
Breaking in the teeth that articulated softly,
Snapping of the muscles in the limbs that held you closely,
Hollowing in the eyes that glanced up at you from that comfy chair,
Dulling of the color that you once loved in my hair,
Shaking through the lungs that laughed at all your silly jokes,
Aching through the joints and bones that wrapped you up and called you home-

I want to be everything for you, but I am very limited in what I do.
If you cannot take me the way I am, then I am not deserved by you.

I don't know what this is;
You've gone ballistic.
Right now I'm dodging words,
but who knows what a fist is?
A figment
of my imagination,
creation
of possible scenarios
that I don't want to think about,
bruises forming on my arms
and gazes screaming, "let me out."
I'm not doing this;
I tell this to myself now,
but I forgave you once,
and I'll forgive you if it all plays out
like it does in my nightmares-
blank stares.
I'm hollowing out,
and I'm not about
to tell you how
I feel.
It's surreal.
I don't want to believe it,
but there's a lot I don't want to believe,
my heart on my sleeve,
and you're wiping your nose in it.
That's not why I care.
I care for the times
when the tears aren't there.
I'm only in love with part of you,
the part that seems to be right now;
I love all the parts I've met,
but there's a nagging inside
that doesn't trust you somehow.
I just feels like there's a side of you
that I've only started meeting;
the loving loses meaning
when it comes with painful greetings
with this new side of you.
I'm tired of ending every night
on a sour note.
I want to let it go,
but I can't.
You have so much power over me,
using me,
repeatedly,
because I believe
that I love you,
and I already forgive you
for anything you've yet to do.
It's sickening to know the truth.

I don't know what this is;
You've gone ballistic.
Right now I'm dodging words,
but who knows what a fist is?
A figment
of my imagination,
creation
of possible scenarios
that I don't want to think about,
bruises forming on my arms
and gazes screaming, "let me out."
I'm not doing this;
I tell this to myself now,
but I forgave you once,
and I'll forgive you if it all plays out
like it does in my nightmares-
blank stares.
I'm hollowing out,
and I'm not about
to tell you how
I feel.
It's surreal.
I don't want to believe it,
but there's a lot I don't want to believe,
my heart on my sleeve,
and you're wiping your nose in it.
That's not why I care.
I care for the times
when the tears aren't there.
I'm only in love with part of you,
the part that seems to be right now;
I love all the parts I've met,
but there's a nagging inside
that doesn't trust you somehow.
I just feels like there's a side of you
that I've only started meeting;
the loving loses meaning
when it comes with painful greetings
with this new side of you.
I'm tired of ending every night
on a sour note.
I want to let it go,
but I can't.
You have so much power over me,
using me,
repeatedly,
because I believe
that I love you,
and I already forgive you
for anything you've yet to do.
It's sickening to know the truth.