spilled ink – Page 18 – Hayden Winston

My Holy Trinity

Breakfast

Writing

You

Existential thoughts rise at 3am,

Creeps in through the bedroom window with the cold air,

Memories spin vivid like television flashbacks,

Count each drop of blood, each tear, each moment sulking in the bathtub,

It was what it was –

You are still you and you are here now,

So what will it be?

Here, yet not really here.

The way we grow with time can seem so surreal,

Can’t bring to mind the pain you used to feel.

Always bleeding, always aching,
Searing hate and agony,
Drowning in the deepest blue,
And dying to love and be loved,
Until I shed the old me.