I knew I left it here,
every shattered line,
forgotten in the middle.
And all the frayed edges
of unnecessary attachments
to materialistic desires.

All these things that I've done,
Flowers told me,
they've all been remembered.
Stored away in the trenches of the minds of
lovers,
trees,
sidewalks,
wallpaper.

The embers will always burn
even after they've been smotherd
by cover-ups and alibis.

From the passenger's seat you told me
how she spoke of forgiveness
but contradicted with grudges.

I came home to find you
sifting through my poems,
the ones about
nature and souls,
suicide and oceans.

So personal they all are,
the whispers of my soul
sprinkled across the pages.

You saw the bits and pieces,
held them,
ran your fingertips
across the words
I so carelessly strung together.

You read the ones where I spoke of
pulling open my eyelids
and
the ones where I
questioned my sanity.

You read where I told my fear of loneliness.

You saw every nameless secret,
hidden along the edges.
The confessions I swore I would never tell.

I began to explain
why I wrote it all,
and even lied,
saying I was inspired by Bukowski,
and that these confessions
aren't mine.

But you had seen that one too.

"I know you,
I see what you feel.

"I often struggle
to keep myself from drowning
in the current."
You said.
"It's not the most peaceful way to die,
drowning,"

When you can't help but kick in panic,
suspended by outlets
and lines of bad poetry,
weighed down by the demons
we birthed ourselves.

If I can swim with you, carry your burden if you do mine,
we may just survive our poetic distress.
Like you always say... we are our biggest enemy.

"We are like scorpions.
When we are trapped in a fire,
we sting ourselves to death."