not poetry.

In the middle of the night I realize I was pronounced dead by you six months ago. Erased, like scribblings on a whiteboard wiped away.

You carefully scheduled the world to collapse. Then, you stole from me and overwrote everything. memories unreadable map my words weightless tides your face foreign island

I drift in a wasteful search for something to hold on to I reach the edge of the world. The water tranquil, through a glimpse of sunrise I see stairs built by your lies. I climb. I touch. I push. The door opens.

It has always been open.