This pen contains my blood,
Pouring out in your absence.

This paper contains my soul,
Torn up in your negligence.

Friends are starting a march
Against my sharp anger
A protest of sorts, against
This war I’ve waged on the world
In honor of your effects inside

Of me.

I’ve become silent and cruel in the sunlit space
Formerly occupied by your shadow.
You’ve read my words assuming they’re the genetic
Makeup of the being you see
When your smiling glance captures
The train wreck of me.

But with all the lies floating around my capital,
Like the taste of someone else’s spit,

I promise you this single truth:
These simple words have absolutely nothing
To do with the single one of me.

You’ll never see the version of me I am
When I am all alone
And you’ll never read the words kept inside,
The ones never surrendered to the exposing surface
Of paper.