I used to vent to my blog.
I’d place all the strain on her shoulders…
&let the world read my weeps,
if they wanted…
if they wanted.
Soliloquies of memories written to release;
A piece written for peace.
I’ve documented emotional apocalypses…
as a reminder of where I used to be.
I am only experimenting with the idea of permanence…
Cuz daddy said nothing leaves the web, right?
My archives will probably confuse her…
textual evidence that’s made her taste the saltiness of my demeanor,
but a bitch is so sweet.
So sweet.
I used to question her about the invention of time,
speeding up our expectations,
dilapidating our patience,
rushing and racing…
never waiting…
never willing.
But healing is a process,
&my currents are still current…
channeled through the dripping of anguish,
staining my pages.
But I am no poet.
I’m just a hopeless romantic,
cleaning up any “I do”s I didn’t mean…
transitioning from heartbreak to heartache,
suppressing my pain.
A cry for help couldn’t be heard past the clouds blocking my esophagus…
If I even made the time to ask for assistance.
But I’m distant.
&No this is not the confessions of a drug addicted,
spirit lifted hipster,
whose job is to take pictures…
It’s contemplation.
I could pour my soul into stanzas of revelation…
like I used to.
I know she misses the days when I let down my guard,
but shid…
words can only cry so hard.
