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.