You asked me if I’d been writing lately

I told you I hadn’t written in months

That I have writers block

You do not know this

But you are really bad for my poetry

Because when I write I’m usually bleeding

And I’ve bled words from places

I didn’t even know could ache

But the ache is faint now and I can only feel it

When I twist my neck around backwards

I keep trying to write about you

But I just sit and stare at the blank page

And smile

And smile

And smile

Because I’ve written hundreds of poems

About women before you

But those poems have been about

How they’ve manipulated me

Until I hated myself as much as they do themselves

You see

I’m used to empty eyes

Drug fuelled fights

And knives in the spine

I’m not used to honesty

Kind notes left on pillows

And homemade baked sweets

I keep trying to write about you

But you are new to me

This feeling is foreign

And I’m still learning the language of you

I don’t want to bleed you into a poem

Not now

Not yet


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