by Eli Oko

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This was a blank page until my thoughts began spilling from me and dripping onto this empty sheet. I saw its beginning, I wish to see its middle and determine its end. As my mind forever spills. I never gather back thoughts. When released it is for all. An open interpretation for the brains of today and yesterday, hoping that tomorrow will welcome it with arms open wide. I am not a typewriter with the letters forever present, ink forever ready and with the ability to hold together the most dark sentences. I write and spill. I spill and flee. I know you wish to continue to stare at my everything, lining them up to your nothings, giving them labels to satisfy your desire. You know loss. I won’t battle your sadness, you win. I am not a typewriter. I am just the writing type. I do not form sentences that forever live, even you are but a memory I keep in my memos, alive – as long as my battery survives. I have a Galaxy and my charger is a mess and it takes forever to get to 100%. At times I forget you even exist. I forget your name, the way it felt on my lips, I forget your jokes and even your silence. I forget your thoughts that you shared with me and I forget you. I am the writing type who holds nothing anymore because they are too heavy to hold. You are too heavy to hold. I feel you on my back weighing me down, with every line you share and every red heart you fill, you empty mine. The pressure is too much to bear. You stand on my heart with your red shoes that blend in with my liquids, and like veins your laces tie knots in my chest. My lungs know you only too well. They know your soles. Gasping for air I feel you are there and that my phone has hit 100. You are the time I see in my screensaver, diving into my background and becoming absent. Flying like the myth we all talk about, time flies. And I never listen to the tick of my watch as it reminds me of the moments leading to your explosion. explosion. explosion. explosion. ex. There you are again in my chest. You will forever belong nowhere, you have become something within and without. You lack all. All. All. It was all, for nothing in the end. See the end is when your hands get tired from spilling thoughts onto blank pages as you notice that for every inch you fill, there reveals, more opportunity to fill. Satisfaction has escaped you and will forever escape me because you are my blank space. The thing that was meant to be filled and now lays, empty. The thing. The thing. The thing. The thing tying knots in my chest. I hate it when my phone is near me, when you are near me, when my memos bring you back to life. Those notes I made when my mind said now is the time to rip open those scars you tried to let heal. Do you know how that feels? I never gather back thoughts. I am the writing type. When released it is for all.


For you. For me. For them. There is no exclusivity in the wounds you left me with. Your war wounds of everything you lost, everything you aimed for and fell short of. I spill and flee, because I won’t battle your sadness, you win. you win. you win.

you win.



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