My black & blueprint is one bruised word
Within a bruised sentence within a fractured ego.
    My hemophiliac feelings are drained even
after all the energy I spend trying to put band-aids
on their wounds.
    See, they kept bleeding months after the first
dagger thrown. You kept offering creams and
gels meant to sooth, and sooth they did. Then
later on you would pour acid onto the
half healed slits on this war casualty called a heart
 and give me an apology I’ve heard so many
times I wonder how much sugar is coated
around these envenomed pills, ’cause I keep
swallowing them and getting drugged up enough to say,
“It’s fine… It’s fine… It’s fine.”
    The next morning, I always end up in the
emergency room trying to recover. I want you
there so bad it hurts, but I know that I’ll never
recover if you come in. Still, I let go of my
sensible side and sneak you in while the nurse isn’t looking.
    And those slits you stabbed in my heart?
They only made it beat harder, sure it didn’t
have much to pump through my body except
every color dancing in your eyes,
every time we’ve ever touched,
every dream that has ever featured you,
every time we kissed,
every phone call,
every time we said I love you together,
and every time I  said it alone, waited, and heard nothing.

And then…

Every freaking word you have ever spoken, written, typed, or texted me.
You somehow course through me as a blood cancer.
The cure, getting rid of you, somehow seems more painful than having you around.
I don’t ever want to let you go…

But tomorrow is my first day in chemo.

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