My wounds are open in this saline water,
I jumped to drown but I forgot that dead people always float,
Now I'm haunted by something alive,
Memories of being in the water with you by my side,
My arms are bleeding from where you kissed me,
The water is starting to turn red, it's beginning to feel like home,
How many bandages would it take for my scathing wounds to heal?
They told me, grieving is essentially loving people in the past tense,
But I never wanted to preserve you, I wish you'd burn,
Just like I burnt on the night of August 14th, when you threw all my letters into the fire,
The ashes remained, it was like watching my own incineration,
You never brought water to diminish the flame, save me the pain,
Now here I am, floating in what could've been my saving grace,
Crying where was once a desert, it's better than the alternative,
Where I wake each day, in a bed, cold on both sides,
Still ruffling through the sheets to find your scent,
Still waking up with things to tell.
YOU ARE READING
What if
PoetryKnew you'd haunt all of my what ifs . . . . A poetry book filled with agony and blinding pain, or can I just call it love?
