Coffee Shop Sessions

Light flickers in the corner of your old room, 
upon a desk pages lay empty lit by the moon.

The barren journal tugs at your shedding snakeskin,
all the years falling away telling you to hold old wounds within.

You grab the pen in the aim of exhaling all that’s needed to say,
perhaps starting with a scribble describing the onset of recent decay.

Perchance those scars were all self-inflicted, 
a strategy to keep a fragile heart protected.

No matter the effort of unattainable perfection
you turned away any attempt of affection.

Is it the desire to be left alone, to deny change,
to oppose the chance of a love exchange?

It could all be true:
the one needing more is the one to remain a statue.

In spite of the inner hell released and downed,
nothing will turn a scorned perspective around.