even a worm will turn?

i await the day i stop writing poems about you.

wasted breathe on pages fated for the fire,

those that will never make it beyond the bleeding ink and into the morning sun.

pathetic how much time i gave to this army of minus one,

never attending, always late,

the only consistency you know is the bitter kind

holding on to a single thread over a cliff-

no water beneath, no safety net this time.

sad how many sleepless nights i have roamed these halls

like a madwoman

and they’d wonder if im alright, but never ask

no one ever asks

agonising how many lines i drew and you crossed

i try to scream but the wind is too loud up on this hill 

i tell myself

as though the words have not found home on my tongue for some time now

and they do not wish to let go

do you hear me?

forget the bitten nails and jammed locks 

i cling to the only thing you’ve given to me true

i sit through the pain 

as the image of the man who should walk me down the aisle one day

shrivels

like an apple under the sun

until all that is left is worm food.