A jagged line describes the way I feel:
torn almost in half and hanging by a
slice of my biology—but it is not the
one you love. That got consumed a long time ago.
I write this story with my own blood as
it drips, second by second, forming an
image you can’t see—but I don’t think
I can see it either. It got erased a long time ago.
The page cracks in half as the words I
once screamed quietly escape through
my fingertips—but you no longer feel my
touch anyway. You got kidnapped a long time ago.
I . . . I . . . I . . . have forgotten the story
I meant to write down and wonder if you
still hear me—but I stopped listening to
the words inside my head. They left a long time ago.
Letter by letter, I try to piece my life
back together with drugs, memories,
and black nail polish—but nothing can
hold me together today. I fell apart a long time ago.
A pencil and a piece of paper walk
into a bar, waiting for the punchline
to buy the next round—but nobody
laughs at the joke. They stopped a long time ago.
One has the power to meet you at my
funeral, a prime opportunity to wear
a black dress—but I forgot to shave my
legs before I died. I quit doing that a long time ago.
The other has the power to raise the
volume, starting a revolution of words
I wish I could say to you; I know I still
have that voice inside me. I listened to it not so ago.
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