how long will you still be afraid of all things
you’ve already branded yourself a coward for?
how sorry can you be for yourself and say it
for having not said the things you crave to?
how many love letters will you let rot away
in the darkness of your journals’ tearstained pages?
how many drafts will you keep imprisoned
worried that the world will decipher your confessions?
how mute can you scream inside your head and
confide in the night in whispers, of those echoes?
how far will you let your keys marathon, your quills scurry
before they give up too; on goodbyes you wish heard?
how deeper are you willing to dive into the ink,
hiding behind your words, suicide notes being mistaken for artistry?
how sincerely can you keep lying to your mirror
with a sketched smile and a barely invisible mask?
how strong can you still be, watching your love
slowly fall in love with someone else and telling you their tales?
how deep will you let those pieces of your broken heart burry
into your palms, birthing scars befriending your flexion creases?
how immune can you get to your own choice of poisons, with time,
with a selection ranging from spirits to fortified dreams to love?
how low would you expect your self loathe to go before you get bored
of being alone in hating yourself that you start to wish it was a team sport?
how much hatred can you hold within yourself for being every last thing
that you have been, are, & would become, before you pity your existence?
how long before you learn to fall asleep each night before you hit yourself,
right in the gut, for having not done what you’d have had hit yourself, anyway, for?
how acknowledging can you become, how accomodating can you be, of yourself,
in accepting yourself, completely, in hatred & despise before you begin to dissociate?