ain't first, ain't last

22

there's always these pages,
every time I get back into it
my windows become a faucet,
every memory turned into cages.

flipping every page,
every letter, every number.
each sentence, each phrase—
hold me back to erase.

the punctuation that indicated,
to all the hues that we used to shade,
in every sketch together we made,
it embarked on a withering state.

for you, I was like that emergency kit,
often forgotten when the pain quits,
i couldn't burn it into the pit,
despite how high the walls I built.

tears couldn't lie about how the injuries were done
as it spilled the ink in my favorite shirt,
i thought it was just a jinx—
but man, these pages punctured my beating organ.

pages that got me ripped,
as I tightened my grip
it got me shrink,
in each scene, i bleed.

these words weren't dead,
the characters just did.