Words that pierce like glass
Scissors scraped across wrist
Hurting and aching
Longing to feel pain
Unaffiliated with my failings.

They understand how it’s done
Something I do not.
Their words float and breathe
And soar and
Taste so good and so real
That I’d like to swallow them
And make them my own.

How to be creative
How to be witty and eloquent
Things I’m too reckless and
Far too ambitious to ever be able to
Run with.

Their words, I could never be like them.
I may never learn those words
The rhythm they move in so
That walking alongside them is
Second nature.

Old friend, coming home now.
I could never be like them.
Cannot loop words and emotions together
So I hurt for real
And scold myself not for that
But because I could never
Write a poem.