My Dearest Armistead,
I hate saying you were right,
But you were.
The smile on my face
Was a temporary mask
That has been peeling away
Ever so slowly.
My insecurity has bled through
The white linen robes of my naivete
And caused me to run to dark corners
To bleach them clean before anyone sees them.
Perhaps one could blame
Nonetheless, I fear this feeling,
It, would be dreadfully lonely without you.
My eyes feel extremely drowsy,
But they are failing to rest.
My mind feels heavy and intoxicated
By the recurring nightmare of emotion,
It haunts my every waking hour.
And my heart is too preoccupied
With its' reminiscing
Wo live with the rest of me.
You have trailed us back
Through every corner of our suffering
And imagined them feats of ink.
Do you not see these moments
Are open wounds?
They are the episodes in our life
That we wrap up in neat little stories
To hide the scars they are transcribed with.
Yet, for some reason,
I have removed the bandages
And allowed you to lick and
To gorge at the fresh lacerations.
That grief you see
Sat upon my shoulders
It is ours to share.
Are you prepared to split the burden?
It will continue to grow.