There’s a crease in my head.
Wasn’t there when we met, fresh-faced, indebted.
There’s a crack in my lips. Wasn’t there at first kiss, but yes, my mouth keeps on moving.
And there’s a crack in my self-esteem that wasn’t there at seventeen, or years later at twenty-three.
God, you should see the organ considered most important to empathy,
arrythmia is me,
and you, my
And there’s a mass called my conscience, a scab I’ve peeled and picked over decades.
And like skin that’s lost interest in the blood underneath, you don’t love me anymore.
I just hope it’s nothing to do with the scars I’ve persisted for,
the tongue-tied wars, our
I keep eating air beside you, but barely anything more.
That’s the part that kills me.