oh how we wither

Of all the things that I've made mine,

of every feeling that’s dripped from my chest

and slipped through my fingers,

you have been -by far-

the most chaotic.

Because you return as if
 I never buried your ashes,
as if you hadn’t left the
most sour taste in my mouth
and I forget how to breathe
every single time.

I can still taste the wildflowers

on the tip of my tongue and feel them

on the tips of my fingers,

but I cannot tell you how much I hate you

because you’re gone before I’ve had time
to slow my racing heart,

before I've decided to
pull these roots from my ribs,

and everything that’s left

is months of insomnia

and bad poetry.

"Nunca nada termina de forma poética. Termina y lo convertimos en poesía."

-Kait Rokowski.