Writers Jam

I’m a carcass My mind is a crime scene, evaluating every possible crime I’ve ever committed against myself carefully gathering evidence, with smoke whispering away nothingness from my mouth.

I see my silhouette in the washroom mirror. It’s foggy from the scorching water, but I am a sketch artist I try tracing myself.

I am gagging at what I used to be, and what I have become. The stick figure I draw doesn’t resemble the carcass I now am.

The bones are hollow but filled with marrowed pain. The flesh is intact, porcelain, veins popping out—blue.

I have no complaints about the way my voice artists have turned me into this.

For I am nothing but a carcass, sitting in the washroom, staring at my silhouette.

Thinking about the way you say you wished to be loved yet you never offer: a whisper of sweet nothings, a body as a safe haven, a love as sacred as a thread tied at the missionaries.

You are a charmer, an elite merchant of apologies and promises, luring in a hundred thoughts of mine toward the flicker of a spark paying a hefty fine for a crumb of affection.

You are valuable, yes. You make the winters feel warm with just a shrug of reassurance.

You wish to feel protected from the sea, but who would dare protect me from the quiet waves of your true self?

Your worries are as heavy as a boulder, yet you stitch them intricately into a dress and make me wear it.

You say you wished to be loved but you can’t bear to look at the waves that reflect you back to yourself.

You say you wished to be loved but a feather would outweigh your care towards me.