When I Planned This Out


When I planned this out,
I was wearing your favorite shirt, and your favorite shorts,
and I was stable feeding off your poison.

Whenever I shot at a new beginning,
the velvety promises of a smooth liar buzzed inside my right ear,
like a cicada pleading to be acknowledged.

I remember the fall night when the first lies were promised,
the air was crisp, but not enough to fracture the sentences,
and each letter forced me to walk one step farther into your web,
like a vortex swirling with false dreams.

But now, in the dead of winter, as I look over what I once wrote,
I am wearing my favorite shirt, and my favorite jeans,
and now I understand that your grip on me was too tight,
and I take my pen and add a new point of view,
my own.

My friends gathered from the center and entered my corners,
each speaking of individual, their voices mingling into one,
bringing in their own changes to my planned poem.

Our conclusion is, that being fooled by your syllables,
is like being touched by frost bite,
and this harsh wind is finally enough to break your lips apart.

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