By Charlotte Steiger
fear conceived from the touch of your fingertips,
digressing back to the first five minutes.
where i’m one choice away from fortitude
with time being my utmost restraint
and one choice away from agitation
where distress becomes the motivator
to tell you to fuck off
to kill yourself
begging you to end it all
looking down to the floor
weeds stem from the same roots
as the ones you once held
when they grew to become flowers over thorns.
the pain of you still trickles
like the paint on the walls
ripping like the seam
laced with a rhyme of melancholy
tending to unrequited love.
irony met with interrogation
your voice presented like the face of ignorance
or maybe arrogance is the word i’ve been searching for