we are way over our capacity
for love, for life itself, it seems; so much so
that every heart is fit to burst with the
need to live someone else’s story.

oh, and the saddest thing—

is that it all very well could be words.
just words, strewn across the blank canvases
that we want so badly to be our lives

but in reality we’ve been written on, a
thousand times over, skin rubbed raw from
all of the times we tried to erase what other
people painted us as, what we wrote on our
hands in an effort to remember the things we
wanted. (yet we neglected to write down why)

and now these words are bubbling within
blood vessels, knocking against the roofs of
mouths in an effort to escape and it’s becoming
harder to say only what you need to get by.

every word is an outburst, every phrase is an
outpouring of something someone else wrote on
you and now we all just spit out the things that
someone else once said, because we’ve thrown
around so many words so carelessly that we can’t
even tell the difference.