Can I just quit?
Let the words slip and drip from my cracking lips like some clever line?
I quit, I quit, I fucking quit.
It’s been said a few times before.
Will I mean it this time?
I cannot quit.
No words slip and drip from my concrete lips.
It’s a sinking line.

I’m tied to one end – the other’s out of reach.

Recycling words spent years ago on pages left unread.
Some feelings better left for dead still tend to fall from broken heads.

I sink like this again and again.

Cursed like a fucking ghost
to haunt every word and every thought
I cannot leave behind.