fucking words.

I am the words.

I feel the words.

I ache to be the words.

I hunt for the perfect phrase,

A paragraph,

A sentence,

A line.

Something that calls to me,

Something that makes me feel alive.

Something that can accurately depict who I am.

What I am.

What I feel,

Or cannot feel.

What I am expected to feel.

I remember the words.

Every line,

Every syllable that has chipped away

At my core.

Everything he’s said.

More to make me hate me,

Then to make me feel love.

Words that have made me question my sanity,

Words that have ripped apart my soul.

Words that have written me off,

Words that make my body go cold.

Words I cling to,

That tear me down.

Words I remember,

As if to illustrate my pain,

Even after apologies are spoken.

The words still billow in my brain.

The words that have broken me,

Are remembered most clearly.

(Vicious, hate, selfish, cunt.)

Not the kind words,

Not the beautiful words,

(Smart, lovely, sexy, woman.)

Not the words spoken in love.

Is there something wrong with me?

Holding on to hopeless vocabulary?

Rarely holding words that provide strength.

Setting them aside, saving them.

Probably only in my darkest state.

They are then used to pull me back

To a place I feel less perilous,

Somewhere I feel slightly safe.

Otherwise they are tossed aside.

While I search stories and poems,

Hunting, searching, seeking,

For those words that set me free.

For those words that were written for me.