Arcadia

37

I poke at my wounds, old and new. Just to bleed, to feel alive, to hear shallow breaths in big empty rooms.

I pick at my wounds. In empty conversations, I look for something new to write on my wall. To feel what never was, it never ends well.

I bleed, but not like I used to. Not like I did back then, when I was in love. The blood comes out in clots, black and burnt and hateful.

(They say I am selfish, I wish I was selfish enough to know what's good for me)

I bleed, around the mess of my room is. I hope it will clean itself up sometime, by some weird magic that I know doesn't exist. Because I can't, I never could. I am too weak. That's okay, it was always a mess, anyway.

(They call my poetry a fetish)

I feel dismal, destructive, unsteady. I've been here before, here, where it isn't poetry. Only words stripped of meaning, a nakedness that jars.

Here, there is nothing left to hold on to.

Here, where my inconsequence gets oppressive. I never really knew myself.

(That's okay. As long as I have something to write about, it's worth it in the end)