battle scars.

in the chaos of recreating myself.
I almost forgot what it felt- to be missed.
to have a hand on my wrist
as I turn, speaking words like 'no',
but with a meaning more like 'stay', than 'stop'.
and in rewriting myself. it seems I left out
the simple things,
in an effort to make myself stronger.
I excluded four letter words that start with 'L'
to make room for all the baggage
I chose to keep locked in the closet.
my skeletons don't have room to dance, much less speak.
so I was content with keeping distance
as more of a literal thing.
that is.
until I forgot what wishing wells were used for
so I started throwing pennies at the ocean
in hopes that my splash would last longer than
the words I'd speak when no one
was left there, to listen.

it's the way that work doesn't fill the voids
where that voice used to echo.
and now I'm left with the vibrations that seem more like
earthquakes. shaking pace with my hands
when strangers stop reaching.
I tried to break even with the cracking of ground.
but my head hurt like that boulder
had lost it's footing.
and down made more sense than standing still.
that's when I lost faith in logic.
and I can still feel that grip.
it's like.
sometimes, man. there's just simply.
nothing left.

and pens. they taste like mercury
so I dip head.strong in the things I wrote myself
to forget. like letters
that never got sent. postage ages
and I sit.
still I sit.
and wonder what's the meaning
when all you're left with.
is this.