I write
and you will find scraps of me hidden beneath
The lines like a child beneath bed sheets. If you
search hard enough, you will find more than what you
Are looking for, possibly fingerprints of?
lost lovers that I’m not ready to let go of yet, and maybe
Even my heart, covered in dust and broken bones.
I scribble thoughts
But I am not my scribbles. Not beautifully, at least. I do
not sway with rhythm, but instead I trip over my own faults
And the only thing picking me up is my regret and embarrassment.
I’m not easy to love, and sometimes I get lost in my own
Anatomy, so I find home in yours. I am deeper than my words,
But if you want to try, go ahead. Try not to drown, I can’t save you,
When I can’t even save myself.
