if I could convince myself,
maybe swear to you
that everything and
everyone is alone.
The rivers throw themselves
against the rocks and
beat their fragments a bloody
The tips of my fingers have been
cold for too long and there is no
such thing as catharsis.
For every weight shed there a billion
stones hurled and even the stars
have managed to comfort
themselves in the darkest of things.
Thirty four years is not safety,
it is not security.
Neither is the seventeen sinking
like rocks in my chest.
I never will be, never have been
content with the days between my fingertips.
skins pressed cannot sate desires,
my tears are not enough to keep you
you are not wrong for the ways you tried to
drown your sadness
there is no renewal in days new.