Unfinished Business


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. -



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