wellwornwings

Waiting for the fall. I knew this day would come. I grasp onto the space left between us. The gap in my ribcage, the empty phantom-shaped hole in my chest. You're fading fast. I'm waiting for your knife as the moment draws near. "Cut me gently, cut me out of mind" Your eyes scream that love will never be enough. I guess I've known that all along but I held hope higher than it could ever be. Now you claw at the ideal with fingernails aimed for destruction: You will be the end of what is left of me. Four lips formed words that can't ever be retracted. I fell in line behind you. But a drunken mouth sets this heart amiss. Next time I'll fall on deaf ears. Behind stage, the understudy to your repertoire, your eulogy...for the one once thought to go second. An epitaph will read: She loved too much. She faltered too much in the end.

and who's to even know if I've gone ghost again together alone skin now silent where once my caress was comfort where once my hands were conductors of symphonies and sparks in the dark I felt you flinch my chest caved in despite lack of intention . we kiss closed off I no longer pull joy from you . it is not my lot to be missed so I'll softly fade while you shift you have taken the moon from my mouth

distant entire those who've shared the alchemy of blood those empires of yesterday those reasons for crawl and there's something about a blushing ghost all the art we make of cobwebs while the earth in glacial increments dictates the strange and terrible director & stage light & tunnel

there's not much noise at the end of the day, here. i move around in silence because if i speak i'm afraid i will scream. when my father hit me he would hit me again if i cried and there's a part of me that will always be 7 i think. it hurts less if you don't expect it. when my father drank he told me i could be anything as long as i worked hard enough. have i worked hard enough yet? i don't want to be anything except loved. how many times can water fall from a duck's back before the duck is drowning? maybe on one hand i can count the ways you love me and on the other i can count the ways you don't. i forget how many times i have to say i'm sorry before it means anything; let me know if i can do anything; please, let me show you how i want to be loved. i have been forgotten so many times i have forgotten myself; when i was four my dad left me at childcare until evening and i was still so happy to see him when he came. since then, i have forgotten because what is there if not the

(After almost half a year) You observed once not long before you left us how people just come and go. You said it as if personhood were something you were just trying on briefly and you were just now weighing in with your judgment, and I remembered how we'd huddle deep in the recesses of our home like a school of shadows - us and ghosts, and the recluses before us in the thin lamplight - enough for each room to know that someone was there, and pictured my voice carrying over to you through the phone like shadow over shadow, wave over wave, like a photon as real as your fingerprints on the satellites in the sky mixing with the stars; the way it all bleeds larger through a blur as the night appears on a surface of a sleeve of water rushing through a pair of fingers.