And at 17 you will forget why you used to
Slit your wrists to write in blood
On brick walls and call it visceral poetry.
You will forget the way that two words rhyme
Would be an allegory for the ruler that is time- and then
You will forever try to fit words together that
You best believe would be ugly paradoxes.
My dead beating heart
My numb emotional mind
My unsure steady fingers
My lips on the most intimate parts of you…
Maybe those scribbles I wrote you
Fucking you with my words on bible pages
Was an attempt to free my rage
And maybe it worked.
These days I hardly feel anything anymore.
But it is not the confusing kind of numb
I felt at 16.
No, this is calm numbness-
The type of cold that knows how to be warm
The type of skin that knows exactly how to fit
Around everything I worked for to buy-
And they all have bite marks on them.
This type of cold is not the kind
That melts me down when someone walks out.
No, this kind of cold and that kind of heat
Are not interchangeable.
Love and hate are no longer the same substance in me.
I have finally freed myself.
I don’t need words anymore.
I’m not a fucking story.