the execution was stayed.

and what else perches upon this body, but the hot breath of
regret, as if sorrow opened its mouth, turning on a faucet
that it forgot to turn off and left the room.
watching it spill onto the floor from the next room over, the room floods,
softening your bones into something soft, waterlogging flesh
to the point where touch ceases to be touch,
& instead becomes a vivisection.

it could have practiced patience for the clockmaker to spring
time forward, but it’s anything but considerate.
mourning follows the branding of lament,
the searing heat wasn’t enough to puddle me—
but you, the beautiful, neat, amalgamation
of everything that ails me so?
that's more than enough.
how do i admit that i can no longer
keep your gaze, without wanting to break down
at the fact that you seemingly can look past all the facades,
without looking like the big coward, we both know that I am?

the space i inhabit always seems too big for me.
i try so hard to cut the excess and cram all of me
into the smallest possible box—maybe then you
wouldn’t notice that i'm nothing but a walking
wound, a sunken being clinging to the little light.

most days, it’s a stretch to call me a person—
i'm almost a person.
scratching at the surface of all the unsayable things,
i pay too much attention to the little things,
& never the big things. i feel too much,
live too little, you split the difference.
you make things beautiful.
i only find things beautiful.

link to how poem was originally formatted: https://64.media.tumblr.com/264403c39db92d283277b98fb6771d94/5e070e86d95193e1-da/s540x810/99d1157a2454676d1a500f0020d9cd8159b42e24.pnj