Strapped into my history
Sewn into my flesh
Grind my bones
In the dust of our friendship
I’m creating all of these
Beautiful romantic things
For no one but myself
That was never the plan
Haunted by the memories
If the perfect parts of you
We’re actually real
Living inside my fantasies
Some kind of self torture
What an acrid perfume
Something of a coarse nature
Blinding me with backhanded love
Like some dark magic
This deep longing or homesickness
Beyond a place or time that
No longer exists—or perhaps never did
Turning on the trafficator
Left turn, right turn
Windshield wipers for clarity
Driving my life highway
Rather than plotting my death
Feeling ready to die
Contemplating suicide
I’m looking for another way
To live this life, a new way
To be alive
Death of a past
Birth of a future
© GÄ
Poétique 