I'd drink you down
all the way to your roots
and the ties that bind your
very being, your cloudy past.
I'd be sure to inhale
the reason for your sorrow,
the anguish and hatred you've
kept inside for years now.
I like the way you've spoken
less than ten words a day,
and somehow still making it through.
You have eyes that look as if they
can speak, and if they could,
they'd say exactly this:
"leave me alone, just go away,"
but they look so watery still.

Sometimes I think if I were to
understand the reasons why,
and if I were to write it down somewhere;
it'd probably take a hundred pages
in my neatest handwriting, tiny font
and on the walls, I'd continue—
though there really isn't pages
enough to understand you at all.