"It's stopped hurting like it used to.
I mean this aching hole in my chest has stopped being something like the masterpieces of that art museum in the heart of the city. I have stopped letting visitors put their hands on it. I labeled it with something that sounds like, "look and don't touch. no flash photography please."
The reason for it is that it only hurt seems to hurt when I let people put their hands all over it.
It gets dirty and the scabs fall off and next thing you know I'm bleeding all over the damn place and I can't stop thinking about the mess- I can't stop thinking that anybody who almost loved me got frightened then and decided to never come back here again and I can't stop thinking that they never got to see that the blood on the floor has been cleaned up- they never got to see that there is nobody here who remembers it anymore.
I mean not really anyways, the only one who remembers it is me- because I knew what was in that place before the emptiness. Love was there, it existed."
YOU ARE READING
Poems
PoetryThis is a poetry book made from people who request to put their own poems in here to any poem I find online. It is made for people to share and express their thoughts and emotions. *NONE OF THESE POEMS BELONG TO ME* (REQUESTS ARE CLOSE)
