Badlands of Bruises

Some words speak as loud as the inner voice, this is when it becomes something borrowed

In the dead of night when your breathing slows to a crawl beside me and your mind escapes to somewhere I can’t go,
I like to lie awake and wonder
who it was that bruised you first.

I wonder what her name was and whether
it’s still woven through your bloodstream like a poison,
I wonder if your body
Is still aching for her inside of every other person you touch and if your heart
is still quietly breaking wide open
with every beat it takes.

In the dead of night when all our thoughts are quiet, I like to trace your bleary history with my mind and I wonder
If there is somebody out there
Whom you are still hoping will return.

I wonder whether your heart’s at full capacity,
Ruthlessly deleting new content like a phone that’s reached its limit,
collecting only colorless images and preserving all the brilliance
of the past.

Late in the nighttime, when your mind is lost beside me,
I like to linger in the badlands of my bruises,
Pressing gently on the pockets where my histories have pooled and taking care to keep preserving you
solely in black and white stills.

In the evenings I lie awake and ponder
Whether we both have scars that we do not care to uncover and

In the dead of night I wonder
If we are both only here because the people that we hoped we’d spend our lives with
Are not.


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