You shaped with words what your efforts

never intended to touch.

“Here,” you said, “I hope this helps,”

and handed me a useless confusion

of intangible nonsense,

like a “you’re enough” jpg

in some beautiful typography.

I always let words secretly rob me of hope and time

when my reserves are already depleted.

But who’s to blame? You’re as helpless as I am,

and I desperately bought the cheap way out

with equal amounts of hope and disbelief.

Of course we’re not enough.

I’m sinking in mud

and my breaths are numbered.