i don’t know my name

You asked me, “do you even know who you are?”
More than anything, I wanted to tell you.
I wanted to tell you that I am the pages torn from my notebooks, left scattered across my bedroom floor in the middle of the night.
I wanted to tell you that I am dark Tuesday mornings, reeking of cigarette smoke and coffee.  I wanted to tell you that I am scars and bruises. That I am the patterns I draw along your spine, but I am nowhere close to being a “work of art.”
I wanted to tell you that I am a town of burning thoughts, rising like smoke in my head.
And I wanted to tell you that I am all the unread books sitting on your bookshelf gathering dust with each passing day.
And I wanted to tell you that I am everything you’ve never wanted to hear, leaking into your bloodstream, like demons eating you apart from the inside out.
But you will never love someone that has ribs like knives, that cut into their skin.
Nor will you love someone who’d rather make you into words fit for a poem, than make love to you. Nor will you ever love someone who carries their flaws in their eyes, especially when they refused to hold your gaze.
And never would you be able to care for the person I wanted to tell you that I am.
You asked me if I even knew who I was.
Up until then, I did.

– excerpt from a book I’ll never write
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