Try. Some voices in your head —familiar.

They whine. They whine.

Why. Sinking within the bounds of deceit.

Never still. Triumphant

Calling you out on shit you didn’t do.

Rough rhythms tracing the sky with hopeless

banter. Terrified without such noise. 

My memories, random and chaotic,

do not tell me more about who I am.

I recall days, rather, moments of blissful

disharmony filled with love, 

tenderness, sighs on pillow, looking up at 

the ceiling with quaint smiles tattooed on

our meek inexperienced faces. 

Also, the spine numbing fear of jumping from a high place narrowly avoiding doom

or life without adequate dignity—less

of a fear than wondering if you cared back.

What sorrow does misunderstanding bring, 

paired so elegantly with callous pride.

Such is the state of my sorrow. I am

grasping for something gained by all 

the heartache (whole mother fucking body, mind, soul ache)

of past experiences. 

To my reluctantly accepting half surprise,

I have no one to hold.