I know you’re tired
I know his hands were snow, I know they burned.
I know his tongue was ash,
But the pills in your palm are dust
And isn’t that the same thing?
You’re choking yourself every day.
Put down the knife, it will never be sharp enough.
You can never cut deep enough,
Each wound is his name and I know you remember.
I know the night is not your friend.
But nobody can carve themselves a new past.
Not even you.
He doesn’t deserve to be bathed in your blood.
The crimson on your thighs was enough,
The purple blossoms on your neck and wrists; too much.
Don’t give what you can’t lose.
You are empty. You are full.
You are too much and yet not enough.
I know you grasp those willow bones to keep you from falling.