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Autopsy on Self
I cannot love you.
At least, not anymore.
If even there was ever love left in the cacophony
Behind my burning eyelids,
The osseous cavity that I emptied
Out like bathwater into the sea.
I am not who I was.
I am not okay with what I have become.
I drug along every mistake I made,
Salted the wounds,
And buried myself in them for days.
I cannot walk away.
I cannot love you because I am not sure
I will be here for you in the days to come.
I am not sure I deserve the body I bruised—
The rib cage pried open so I could reach my arms through.
Certainly I do not deserve you.
The scars I forged will mean something again some day,
But they are not for you;
They are mine alone to answer to.
They cleanse me like antiseptic through a metal sieve;
If I don't make it back,
Then I don't get to live.