Writing

You were supposed to be different.

The one that I didn’t have to give up on.

Someone that I could rely on.

But I turned my back and you chose her.

She who wounded me with words and threatened to do worse.

i'm addicted now;

you hand is in mine again,

i'll never be clean.

After Robert Frost's Stopping By the Woods on a Snowy Evening

Do the see the world as a poem

Do you see it like I do?

Do the words slip through your fingers

Do they slip before you can open your eyes?

Do they slip like I did

thin veins rush through with

green blood and water. As if,

yearning for full boom.

We manifest our fear in our hands, as physical things; sometimes it pricks at our skin and leaves marks, sometimes it results in stiff fingers, cracking from a stiffened clench.