the moment
the words have left
the nib
they no longer
belong to you
they belong solely
to the world
as they dry
flaking off as scabs
to be collected
in corners or
glittering gently
in spiderwebs
whatever heartache
or passion
you have poured out
becomes replaced
by the reader’s own
unique perceptions

you never consider
how your wounds
can affect someone else
what festers
these cancerous growths
may appear beautiful through
a kaleidoscopic array
in someone else’s
chemical diffusion

i put the casual
in casualties
tearing pages from
my dream journal
and making paper airplanes
to litter the aether
where they mostly die
ignoble deaths
but occasionally
or so it would appear
they crash themselves
into someone’s head
leaving an impression

i don’t quite know
how to process that

fitting words
for my unmarked grave