Self

What is a past time?

Who have you left in the past?

A place, a dream, a love, a friend?

There are holes in the door now. The top layer of skin is streaked, ashen

and along your hand the dermis looks like eraser debris. You wipe away the red & brown debris of yourself

as a drip of warm ticklish blood gets away laughing at your pain. You’re wishing you could relive a past sworn never to miss.

What is a past time but a nostalgic rush of sadness with a smile. You miss them don’t you?

Shut up, self.

A phone call from a friend. A familiar voice. Talk of the times. These occurrences are chords being played on your heartstrings.

It’s a hopscotch of emotion and while you hold the stone,

memories flash like reflections on water. A ripple of faded happiness grows bigger than the emptiness in your heart.

You only wanted to skip past the pain and stress, not aware of the void skips cause.

Wood remains weak where the ply was crashed in. Your fingers press against the bent damage.

Your place is now damaged. You see yourself…damaged. You see your past love…damaged. You see your past dream…damaged and then stop.

You see your past friend…there.

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