Monday, February 11, 2013

you are made of

the pieces of yourself that you left behind
in beds
their absences stitched together like chain-mail vests and you're stronger for it, aren't you?
empty photographs stacked thick and piled as high as sandbags 
to the door. 
you are made of rocks and heavy breathing and the sound of car doors and gripping the sheets through
the uneasiness of memory, 
detoxing, trying to sweat her out.

you gave your trust away like connivence store matchbooks and yeah, 
we both felt stuck 

you believe that the sky is the only thing that can make you cry anymore.

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