Who you could be isn’t
who you are, would you have
me wait to see if you’ll do what
you said you’d do, remove all your
scars? Am I nothing
more than a trophy, something to
say you had the chance to polish,
was it the idea of actually
winning, or the idea of losing more
than not. What effort to wax on, wax
off, set aside into a transparent box,
just to say you own it, claim it, won
it, when other’s had tried to regain it.
Who are you?
Who do you want to be?
Do you even know, or is that also
up to me? To find where you went
left, to sow in the crevices of your heart,
love blossoming, filling, allowing you to
see clearly, through the guise that your
eyes were wide open, but when you reverted I
knew they were still sewn shut.