we didn't worry about
the delicate exchange of ideas anymore.
we either told it like it was
or didn't speak to each other at all.

intricate was the wordsmith's
attention to cutting detail.
he held a single photograph in his hand
to recount all of the events that would unfold.

i etched the details in my mind
and looped them around
some shitty chorus
of an overplayed love song.

and from the filters between
my ears and my brain,
i stole all the beauty and
discarded the parts that would damage me.

my imagination is not capable
of dealing with the pain
inflicted by man.

i sleep and hope to wake up to something new.

and realize that this passivity
will not save me
this time.