everything in my life is congested
just the way you left it;
still, there’s something freeing in these tears
like trophies, mirroring ones you gained,
through electronic word,
through lies that when discovered,
crumbled on the bathroom floor.
I’m finally writing again,
but what’s even the point in it;
attempting feats? making the unmoving move,
the unfeeling, feel?
an insurmountable task for just two hands and one pen.
i’m awake to greet the sun,
i feel like i’m the only one.
colleen means “little girl”,
and i’ve never felt more like one.
if you look closely enough, the story always develops.