there is nothing poetic about you.
there are no pauses between your words,
there are no stars lighting up your eyes,
there are no smiles that mean anything to you,
not when you're holding on
instead of letting go.
and yet, if you're so broken,
so ready to drown,
so ready for the way out,
any way out,
how is it that i can hold your face in my hands,
look into your tired eyes and read your soul in
three and a half million words,
you think you're tough?
you think you're strong?
you think you're cold and empty and lonely and done?
and you think you're fooling me with your beautiful words,
your gracefully spun metaphors?
not a chance.
you may not think anyone sees you.
not the sun,
[all it does is shine when you're a thunderstorm begging to explode]
not the stars,
[all they do is dance when you're too tired to take another step]
not the eyes of those you love the most,
[all they do is see what they wa