there are days
where i write myself

empty

then i sit
and all i can think
is
i should be

writing

my head is
killing me
not literally

probably
maybe

weighed down by
so many screaming
ghosts
stories
memories
that i can feel myself

sinking

even the ceiling
has grown bored
of watching me
watching it
when it damn well
knows
all i can see is

you

so i tell the world
to go fuck itself
whisper my love
into the breeze
and do the only thing
a fool can do

i write

and the words feel
as if i am
extracting
bone marrow
with a rusty
scalpel
no antiseptic
no pain reliever
just the sound of
sawing deep into
your own flesh
hating how badly
i need to feel

anything

too tired to
sleep
too wired to
try
i should be

writing

but instead i
am

lost in the words
that bring me
closer to

you.