Poetry For The Broken

Please don't

"I miss your old writing" my sister said vaguely
The old me was alienated
The old me who compared love to the sea and called depresion a quick sand
The old me who loved to play with words
The me who compared anxiety to being invited to a tea party as a guest of honor
The me who painted love as art and colored the existence of normal words
My words were foreign and too difficult to understand
Who could understand me when I called experiences stories
Could anyone even tell that love meant old buildings
Kissing frogs was just a bit of my past self
I have fallen in line and I have accepted the death of my art
Reality had sunken its teeth deep into my skin
So please don't say you miss the old me