A Window About to Burst

I'm losing it

to the point where I starve myself

just to hear the music

of stomach groans,

and waste away into emaciation

where I discover the patience

of being alone.

And these bones may rattle

in the cold

but at least for now, they hold me together

like a hyphenated word

on the verge of running out of letters;

A window about to burst

into shards where you'll trace my name

so you can remember the bleed.

Or spacedust

looking one final time at the constellation

from which it was freed.

I'm an amalgam

of what never was and what left

written on a paper, then glued in half.

A song played with the volume down.

The words you never heard.

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metaphorist's picture

I remember your bout with indifference when you wrote this and even though I was a horribly self-involved person at the time, it still hurt me to know you were feeling this way. And for course I was making the situation worse for you rather than try to make you feel better.