I can
make
my body
into art,
a
musical instrument
that
cries out
and
sings
in an
eloquent language
of its own
for you,
when I
shove my
sharpened fingernails
into my arm,
scrape and shred
off skin,
finger and fidget
through flesh
and strum my
veins to the
tune of
your
song's haunting
melody.

And he changed. The way the leaves fall down. The way the ground varies every season. He changed. And suddenly I wasn't enough for him anymore.

Yesterday;
Days go by…

Tomorrow comes;
Again, I’ll cry.

I look to you;
You’ve gone away…

Now and always
… is today.