Gerard

Ink stains warp into fluid black tendrils

Slithering down my throat and pooling in my guts

I want to throw the words back up at you

But instead they just sit and sink into my bloodstream

Occasionally finding their way into my fingers so I can type

Writing is fantasy

Writing is fiction

Until it isn’t

Until it is a mirror reflecting your hidden desires

Until it shatters the mirror and aims a microscope at your actions

I ignored the warnings in your words

So that red flags just looked black and white

And now all I can come up with is metaphoric bullshit

Because I don’t know how to say thank you and fuck you in the same sentence

And I don’t know how to blame myself any more or any less