every story I’ve lived is impressed
upon my existence like fine tissue paper
upon my existence like fine tissue paper
wrapped roughly around jagged stone
my once, soft skin feels foreign
and tired beneath weary fingers
hands that held on too tightly
to things past
to things past
learning to let go is hard
it takes its toll
each day I become someone new
learning to forget is difficult
under the guise of forgiveness
unless it breaks
whatever is left of a weary soul
whatever is left of a weary soul
facing regrets and mistakes
of what could be
or should have been
reminiscing in vain
accepting the truth of what is
is harder than denial or blame
so I blame you
and stars that burn the night sky
and paintings that float forever in space