There.

Stutter and stammer and sputter and mutter
the pathetic  stream of words you will never write down again.
Warm them with your breath as they spin out of your  head.
Web-like, fragile, transient.
It’s been awhile and the roses are dead now.
But it was real,
the dirt under your fingernails
remind you of the muck
that was once what you revelled in-
Black rain and fingertips throbbing inside you
and , and cinnamon- because that’s good, good stuff.
Hair that smelled of smoke and blinded you in one eye
and the cold weight that rose in your stomach as you watched the last one die.
You hardly talk about yourself anymore these days but that’s okay.
The stars have lost their scars and all you see is white light,
burning back tears that never fell
that last night and your memory dwells ambiguosly, selectively on …
But No.
Play it safe now.
We don’t want the world to know.
(Oops. Too late).