cliché musings

i started to write words

on a blank page

to pretend to be someone else

to create a world through white space

to feel like typing on a keyboard is worth

more than the click 

of nails 

and straining

of eyes

now i write a feeling

i can’t describe

to pretend to be 

of myself, 

to think i still have to like what i like, not writing 

to understand how it hurts when

his typed words said he’s not into

this it’s 100% not you right girl

of the wrong time, 

and he doesn’t write

after i write the mess 

of words 

that came out easier than 

when i stare at a

blinking cursor

i don’t write about that

even when i have more to say

than the stories he never read

or the lines he said we could

write together but never did

i don’t write about my cracked

persona or the sharp pieces that

splinter my skin each time

i try to assemble them together

just to feel like the entirety

of me