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.