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.


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