You can't
tell me who I really am
because
your point
isn't to validate
my current state of unraveling
with these
silk screens
of memories and hopes and dreams
cluttering up my psyche.
But you,
you can't
bring yourself to
properly respond
to drunken txts I sent.
Why do we keep pushing
ourselves in circles?
Circles, circles, spin around.
Fling about this discontent.
Thanks for treating me
like it was all a waste.
Don't reply.
You can't
do anything but tell me
that my voice is almost heard.
That it's ok with you.
You're not the same.
You can't change.
Why?
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