An installment of Lucy Writes Crap Poetry on Her Phone
perhaps if i unstitch these scars
wounds seemingly bound together by temp-
orary measures stapled with safety
tear my heart apart, bleed myself
dry off from the rain.
it’ll (i’ll) be enough.
will you refasten the locks
when you shut the door
will you replace the bandages, empty efforts;
or let them stain yellow like old pages
of the journal i kept, the words written
now details of my present.