shoebox | a poetry collection

- tell me dear, of the burn of freedom

you've forgotten me already.
expectation proven reality;
i do hope you're having fun.

you managed to get out!
good job, it must be nice.
years & screams & aches.
it hurts.

you paved some roads,
i shan't deny this, but
let us not forget my trails.
tears in dusted water.

you've forgotten me
and i miss you — a
pickle we're in, it seems.

you've forgotten me but
you're long gone & away,
not having shed a single tear,
i'd bet.

you weighed on my life, a
misguided child's idol;
i did this to myself & you
did it to me & it's my fault
& your fault & our fault &
theirs.

blame them as i keep doing,
words sharpened to blades &
cutting deep with short laughs.

in a way it's fair, though —
they stoppered my affection
for you.

palaces built of their words
& chapels worshipping falsities.

the stars are dimmer now,
without you here. in my sky
but yours — yours seems fine.

i miss you, though the words
refuse to form.

i miss you, cough it up & watch it burn.

i miss you, come home please.

- a. ; 10.03.21