I can’t write about you anymore.
You’re a black poison in my veins
and I’ve spent years scratching
and digging and clawing my way
into my skin to break open
my veins and bleed you out but
you won’t go; you won’t leave
the nest you’ve built in my ribs
where my heart used to be.
You’ve spent all this time slowly killing me.
Eating me alive, spreading like wildfire
through my nervous system. You’ve left
your things in my cerebellum and at night,
I leaf through the pages of the secret messages
you store there and I know I should just sleep,
try to forget you’re there, will you away like
bad dreams or memories but it’s never been
it’s never been that easy.