your empty words are not heavy
…they’re  hollow
it’s the hidden meanings that trip me
though your sharp words fail me
they may slice but can’t cut me
and if I were to fall
I’ll slip down your tongue
…hang off your lip
if you were to speak at all

These words are for me,
For I'm the one who's hurting,
I'm just healing myself.

Do you resent me
for such a hang up?
What am I supposed to do?
Oftentimes I'm torn,
frayed and tattered
along my edges,
trying to dance between
what is right
and what I like.
The stretch of space
between those two
have only grown more vast
with age.
Sprawling wastes fills that void,
wider and wider and
I'm always left reeling from my choice.
Indecision is the ghoul
that haunts my soul,
telling me to
avoid these feelings all told.
For when I do decide,
I can't seem to pick right
and I'm always left
reading the bones.

I gave her
latitude,
took the higher
road.
Appeasement
never works.
She drank all
my whiskey
and stole my
parakeet.
The Romans bathed
naked in the
Tiber, and she
wins wars with
a smile.
Never mind the
casualties.