day 181

I write poems for you because I know you will never read them. At times, I have completely convinced myself that you are just a thought. I do not know how heavy your breath is while you are asleep anymore nor do I know what you dream of. These things separate us from being in love and in hate. I wonder if you've ever learned to sleep in the dirt. I have been dragged around and the dirt under my fingernails have become second nature. There are scars along the lines on my palms that keep telling me it will get better. And that I will forget. And that I will someday forgive. As long as I keep writing, the dirt soaks into my skin and it poisons my blood. I do not know who I write these poems for anymore. I have let myself become one with the dirt for so long that all the dirt is the same.