Some days,
I can feel death
well up slowly inside of me
wearing at the fragile, blue-green strings
that are supposed to hold me together

The strings - they’re not doing a very good job
now are they?

After the x-ray,
after the autopsy,
I wonder if they would find some gaping hole
in the middle
where my will to live was supposed to be…

 and we could all blame it on that.
A physiological fault,
instead of a psychological one,
that lead to my ultimate demise.
A hamartia that can take all the blame
so no one else has to.

Psychology seems to be a game
of pointing fingers
but physiology
is just misfortune.
So maybe we can all let it go.
and finally let me rest in peace.

I see you out of the corner of my eye
sauntering towards me
that cocky, carefree, half-smile on your face
that I hate so much
yet can’t bring myself to look away from. 
And as you sit yourself down, facing me
your favourite question comes out
“what? no hello?“ 

And everytime you ask that
you threaten to break the dam that holds
back all my pent up frustrations.

I could tell you.
That last Saturday,
waiting with my coffee and the wind,
I imagined wrapping my fingers
around your pale, fragile little throat
when you finally deemed me worthy of your presence.
But that when you appeared,
I couldn’t do anything,
but wrap my arms 
around your waist 
and how much I hated myself for that.

I could tell you that.
But the words get lost tunneling up
towards my thinly pressed lips.

And oh how easy it is
for you to sputter out every though and careless
whisper that graces your mind.

But for those of us who
write and rewrite every line…every life.
Those who hide away worn notebooks
filled with scratched out words and torn pages
Communication doesn’t come so easy.
And I can’t trust my novice mouth
when my heart is filled to the brim
with bitter blood.