I’ve been bleeding over the corners of my pages.
My body’s leaking ink and heading straight for the drain.
The spectators clap at the familiar spectacle,
checking off the dates until the next episode.
How bold it was for you to wrap me up in tape.
Thought gaping holes were only papercuts.
But the sirens were wailing all the way to warn of a mistake.
Yet you stayed behind.
I’ve been feeling less of myself—I think I lost it.
The blueprints of my image were youthful fantasies.
In that smile—the power of the rising sun,
and I could paste it over those old photographs.
You read the coded lines after I smoothed over my creases.
When there was a reaching out, you were reaching in.
Two figures spinning intertwined screaming, “Hallelujah,
we’ve found the place to reconcile our demons.”
For this pool of swirling phrases was close to your door.
The footprints you left behind traced every motion forward.
The ghosts were knocking at the door and you spurned their return
by trusting a faulty dam to hold them back.
If that’s destiny then I suppose this is our lot:
Broken and when pieced together, worse than how we started.
But when our fingers brush past I’ll pretend I can forget,
If you pretend that you can never leave.
We’re digging deep down in our foxholes, holding out for the rain.
The acid on our tongues will be enough to quiet doubt.
This is a makeshift forever story, so as we’re staying put,
We might as well be good to our promises.
This can be the hill we die on—these trenches mark our graves.
So we might as well be good to our promises.
( ❤ Mitch)