my inner voice. bragging and shy. so very coy
abruptly impassioned in its perilous joy
heartbeat in abdomen slowing
how happy id be, if i didn’t have to be coping
happy to show it. magnanimous. passively broken
this vacuum of time, my pen founded words to expose
an odd inquisition to want composition to rot and erode
deposit, disposed of. non disclosure achievements
championed my only escape by barely breathing
never felt as close to you, until you were leaving
no country for my old man left me in a state of bereavement
constantly question if its supposed to be like this
does my need for a soul mean I’m codependent?
does my addiction for intimacy supersede my priorities?
why does it seem like self sabotage when I can’t provide ideal scenarios in my relationships
why don’t i care more about what happens to my heart?
is it anxiety? or do i care so much that my passiveness is a means of protection from the unknown?
tired of this. esophagus, loaded with words
that’ll never break light or get its attention deserved
the most painful thing i did was losing myself
my memoir of dark thoughts steadily creep off the shelf
over saturated with half-love, masked-up infatuation
I’m so exposed
..at night time my heart wakes me up
it asks me what happened with so and so
i don’t know. please. don’t ask me again.