I wish I could bleed the way I used to. I’d roll down my blinds, roll up my sleeves, ties back my hair and unzip my veins. Methodical, obsessed. I used to keep my room clean, used to stack books next to my bed so I could read them in my dreams but now they live on shelves, on the other side of my room, their spines don’t face outwards because I never want to know what I’m picking up. Ive stopped reading.
I sat on the end of a jetty at 2am with a bottle of whiskey I stole out of my parents cabinet and I drank to the sound of your name as it played through my mind, and I spent hours contemplating what would happen if I just stepped off. I remember the blood and I remember watching it swirl in circles down the sink and I remember feeling lightheaded and I remember waking up on the bathroom floor and I had ruined my favourite shirt so I burned it with the letters from him. In my dreams, he kisses my forehead in assured confidence and I let him touch me but now I flinch everytime I see a hand move; I wish I could learn to stop talking.
I am sitting at the edge of a tombstone with the name engraved that looks like my uncles but it doesn’t have enough life in it anymore and I’m kissing the grass with tears and my mother is worried about me again she follows me around the house but here I am safe and I tell him about the girl I met and I tell him about the songs I hear everytime I think of his name and I tried so hard to fix myself for him that I died when he broke.
Time passes differently in poetry. Because in real life today I sat on the edge of my shower and kissed the back of my hand and then unzipped my wrists to let out all the anguish that I cant help but feel and I watched as the threads snapped and I laughed out loud and then I fell asleep for three hours and it has nothing to do with you its all in my own mind but I should have warned you that I’m more fucked up than you thought.