why must we clean out our wounds?

dear oswald,
why can't you just slow down?
have i gone mad?
or have you simply just...gone.

Falling down
strange words
anxious predictions

of everything im not
and will never be,

I left this country in a rush
with nothing in my pockets
but leftover blood
from my last
battle -my last-try.


I always seem to pack my bags
in the midst of a storm

you see packing fixes everything.


Oswald,
I am so sorry for not being enough
and I am sorry for every single letter
my heart ever composed.
in silence-or perhaps
on a busy street
just standing there
waiting on the side of a road.

i will not cry.
i coulden't possibly be this weak.


i will not.


I pack up my scarves
and tuck them in deap
I brush out my curls
and beg myself
let it be