These days feel like half-empty sheets of paper

and I don't have enough ink in my pen

My coffee has gone cold

but I continue drinking,

because drinking

is a nervous habit of mine

I'm afraid to turn twenty-one

(if I ever get that far)

because my body might fail me ▬

some sick way of revenge

For the days I cut it open

and watched it cry,

for the days I left it empty-handed

with nothing but a dry mouth

and a burning stomach

These are new days

ones with sunlit mornings

and dew-painted grass,

but I've been allergic all my life

some people are incapable

of stopping to smell the roses

So this poem will go unfinished

I hope my life does the same

- B. B. -