Lying on the bedroom floor coughing up dust.
The sweat has turned cold and my hands have not stopped trembling.
Insides swirling on their sides.
I am nothing but a pile of recyclables.
A collection of originals.
Coming together to make a pitiful whole.
I am no winner.
I am not the next best thing.
I am the past bubbling up.
With nothing but apologies to offer.
the irony of two travellers trying to catch each others moving feet. Or kissing someones wounds deeper than the sea. What a strange feeling it is to refuse love. To cringe at lips plastered all over my body as if it’s forgotten the taste of softness, nor does it feel it deserves it.
How am I suppose to tell my body it deserves to be nurtured?