to activate words: insert quarter

 when I write: the words look cold and dead

they burn, and sear with meaningless ice

no passion, no feeling, they aren’t enough

 I can’t write anymore because what I write is me and I am a mess.

If I could I’d crumple up and fly to the basket,

I’d fold my corners and rip me in half

I’d scribble over my features and torch my answers

I need to talk to you, to get my questions

I’ve lost the desire to know, but yearn for the fire you bring

Tell me about her voice, about her words, about her life

Tell me the way you feel around her

Tell me so I can bleed, tell me so I can live

This silence is driving me to the edge

I’m waiting for you to break the hope back down

I’m waiting for the end, to begin again

My brain is only loud when you’re silent

It’s a trap, a mess

I am a mess.