Through the trees

This is my tell.
I want to write.
I want to tell the story of my lonely heart.
I want to breathe warm air
I move less, sleep more.
I ache.
Maybe I start reaching for things that fill in.
"Shove another needle down a hole"
More caffiene, endogenous opioids.
Cheap thrills, expensive mistakes.
Chipping away at my eggshell exterior.
No attention span,
Needing attention, protection.
Acute disappointment, guilt and confusion,
Razor-sharp and hair-thin.
A blue eyed woman combs my souls from the wall.
I won't give in, this time.
It's always the last time, the last one.
You never plan it, and it's always deeper
Than we imagine.
I am ineffective. Good for little more than
Navel-gazing.
And it kills me to see again.
For the thousandth time- people never change.
There's a power where I don't want it.
Such power, always more than we imagine.
If you've never been there, you cannot understand.
You will never know. And maybe, while I am learning more about myself- I am powerless to effect sustainable change.
Maybe I don't have it figured out.
Maybe it's because I like being this way.
This is my tell, she said.
Can't see the forest through the trees, so we look for the tell-tale signs: fallen logs, and a leaf or two give it away. Back here again, eh?
Well, then I have learned nothing. Nothing.