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.