I keep a journal with me at all times,

With lead smudges and 3 different blue inks.


The only stories written inside are fragments.


My heart has been soaked in salt water…

… I see myself in the mirror: stoned and wild…

… My heartbeat matches the wind…


Read quickly, they seem to be poetic.

Maybe they meld together in a pulpy, obscure truth.

But when read in one night, in one breath,

They become a conglomerate of contradictions and unsolvable riddles.


If I handed it over- ripped pages, and red wine stains in all,

To a weathered psychologist who has seen (and met) eyes much wilder than mine,

He would be lost only 3 pages in.


My heart is bitter and as dry as a desert sunset…

… I see only you in the mirror, never the face I know I own …

… I haven’t felt my heartbeat in years, or has it been lifetimes?


There is no way to sew the words together,

Because each unravels the one before.


Every breath unwinds the next.

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