Leftovers From A Wasted Season Taste Bitter With No Hope

there will be no more, after you.

there will be no more at all. 

my father was right, count on yourself,

cause the rest will only let you down. 

down a rabbit hole, 

down a drain, 

down and down and down until a rock bottom feels dangerously close to a ceiling. 

I thought I was more intelligent than this, I thought my heart had a brain 

turns out; 

either has neither

there will be no more, after you,

there will be no more at all. 

there will be me. there will be my books.

my stories. my typewriters and my pages. there will be my rejection letters upon rejection letters upon bills. 

but write I will continue.

stacks upon stacks of a reality twisted into something relatable. 

a letter written in the darkness, that will ease the ache somehow. 

there will be no more after you. 

only me. inhaling and exhaling. a pen in my hand and a paintbrush behind my ear.

 

a broken home and an understanding, finally. 

solitude. 

because destiny is a cruel, misunderstood friend.