The Blood & The Bones

intricate hand written letters never sent
sitting in boxes on imaginary shelves
stuffed full of poetic confessions
disguised as lessons
letters and words
dripping, spilling
like blood and honey
as it flows from wounds and lips
collected crumpled pages piling dust on top of regret
I have written novels on just how lost I’ve felt
full of inquiries I’ll never dare to drop my walls to ask
reaching out with severed fingers
that pride would not allow to close the gap
novels and notebooks and little torn out pieces
amassed like steeples of secrets
profound thoughts and professions
filed away and sitting stacked
in the darkest corners of who I am
places I try not to visit again
but on occasion
tiptoeing through mazes
careful not to disturb these towers of pages
and bookcases of my illustrated suffering
this is my life’s greatest work
full of questions
so many fucking questions
but at the root
the base
the bloody center mass
the bound and beating heart of a story
that became so tragic
the only thing I could have written
the only thing I want to ask
is
why didn’t they love me back?

the blood
& the bones