By Alex Greenspoon
Edited by Ellena Lu and Alloe Mak

You say I am “broken and bruised”
But I’ve healed my own wounds.
You can’t control what you consume
but who am I to judge?
I’m not an intervention or your AA meeting.
You’re a bridge slowly breaking,
I can hear the creaks within your soul.
Your back snaps open at the sound of a pin dropping, controlled by your still stopping.

You consist of my thickened blood and spit.
I consist of the sorrows and the song we dedicated by peach pit,
Yet as well, the thread from my porcelain and gold detailed sewing kit.
Our memories are filled with laughter,
Until they faced a resurgence of tears.

I’m tired of writing about you and your fears
yet it seems to come naturally.
Be more powerful.
Be consistent.
I can write about her and how I know I fucked up.
Hurt her, yet want to show her every ounce of enamour.
I slipped into a puddle of her love and now I’m comfortably stuck.
I went from second guessing words to never wanting to rewrite,
longing for her attention the second it leaves my sight.
Though I love her,
I still wish you roses with no thorns.
I hope that your heart pumps the same amount of blood it did for me for someone else.
You are still lovely.

I wish no harm to you,
only roses with no thorns.
Only tulips that open by the hands of yourself and another if you desire.