Words Can’t Die

I cut my own wings,
And no one realized how that wounded me.

What is it called when humans rust?
To feel my soul fall apart and turn to dust.
Corroding my mind to stop the ink from dripping in his waters
I feel trickery is involved.
Never have I thought I would be in ruins.

Think of me, Romeo, Juliet…
The sound of mordacious infatuation lulling me to sleep
Strip it all out till it spits out threat.
And I say, People don’t die of it anymore.

It would heal back, they say.

Pity me when I say ‘I’m with them’
I was not real, almost fading
If I could be with you
I won’t be punctured in spine
Rigid with their trivial lies; Now,
Visible to my eyes.

Where does it hurt?
In my soul.



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