I'm Not Through

Supposing this means sorry:
I'm flimsy in a serated sort of way
jagged edged to hurt you and then myself.

I've only ever waited for myself,
never you.
Grand High Bitch wasn't even patient enough for that.

It feels like
angry, blank, red, alone, blank, black, teary, blank, blank, pathetic, red, blank, self-loathing,
blank.
Everything falls back to nothing,
but I barely remembered what nothing felt like.

You were always so secure
celophane eyes to wrap up my problems
now
you help create them
or do I.
I'm selfish at the best of times.

Always that one thing,
you wrote in invisible ink
but when it came to me we stamped
with red fucking marker across what was left behind.

You're the only string left that I didn't
perhaps refuse to
cut.

I pinned 2 months on something so empty,
and somehow I've made it so full.


I need to be more secure before I can getty sappy and nostalgic
God I miss having such security
I don't understand
spending evenings on my bedroom floor
bringing myself to tears
through recalling things that no one but I care about anymore.

It feels like every hope that I pinned has turned on me
and is making me bleed
tiny pinpricks of discomposure.