A you before you.

I watch you collect tea leaves,

and shove them in your mouth.

Words of a hard depression,

words of dirt, rags, and bones.

Why would you let this happen?

This question buries my brain each night

I lie awake,

wondering.

Hope isn't going to help this ship

stay afloat.

I need a life raft

before I sink into the swimming pool.

Help grab me a towel,

grab me a heart,

restart. 

Press all the right things to get me to start.

While were at the finish line.

What were you like

when you were not mine?

A shovel in the ground?

I guess I’ll find out.

A wrapped gift under the city lights.

A brand new pair of socks.

A bullet hole inside a coloring book.

Just show me.

Show me you before you came along.