Because I want us on the same page
the same sentence
“and” both joins us together and keeps us apart
a single word with a split-heart
binding the line but pulling the cards
leaves you the story, and me the scar
leaves you with the mess, and me to depart
but “and”—
it’s both the bridge and the border
joins us in breath, splits us in meaning
like we speak in tandem but never in time,
we echo the sentence but miss the remark,
stuck in the silence between every spark,
a pause too long, a touch too short—
like love on delay or a hung jury court,
where “and” is the witness that saw us begin
but never quite testified where we would end.
pretending i’m fine while you spin your lies,
i choke on the air until every truth dies;
i write our story in ink that bleeds,
each line a verdict of unhealed needs—
writing makes us immortal for a fleeting while,
but time’s a thief, erasing us with a smile.
“and” drags you back in though it keeps you so far,
an echo of us like a scar from a broken heart.
i’m forced to sit silent while circumstance takes the upper hand,
time’s borrowed breath freezes the words i command;
the truth is hard to swallow, bitter as spilled wine,
and violence, the only answer, burns every line.
step outside—
the sky shakes, paranoia sets in, raw and petrified,
with each syllable “and”—
that one simple bridge of pain—
a pause that loves to linger yet never dares explain.
i fear being rewritten,
rearranged, replaced
if the sentence gets cleaned up
i’ll probably be the one erased
because i’m not the point (.)
just the part that breaks (,)
i’m the margin you crop out
to make the picture safe
i rewrite our story with blood in the pen
while you skim for the parts that forgive you again
writing makes us feel timeless
but time wore us thin
and you—
you’re the spine, sure
but i am the skin
words like “too” or “in addition” try to fill that space,
but nothing holds the ache like “and” in its place.
because i want us on the same page, the same sentence,
forever tethered by “and,” with its silent, savage presence.
i bury my heart in verses that bleed regret,
vowing no tidy rewrite can ever make us forget—
if they scrub away chaos, if they silence our roar,
i’ll vanish like mist, erased from the lore.
but i stand in the wreckage of every fractured rhyme,
a lone soldier defiant against the hand of time.
so let that one-word echo like a gun’s last chime,
marking every fall and every scar left behind;
when you see “and” again, let the sorrow be known—
the ghost of our moments, the truth overthrown,
a final reminder that nothing’s as it seems,
in a sentence where violence is more real than our dreams.
you AND me
and the fight in between
still wondering if it joins us or keeps us apart
but you have to read the story to get to my heart
and you have to see the picture to understand the art
the weight of my words and the weight of time
the struggle between conjunctions and what i thought was mine
“and, too”, we stay together because it binds us in the line
“I” stands alone, independent and proud and does just fine.
the same page, the same sentence?
but our truths don’t align
never us—
not in ink, not in breath, not once in the verse.
a story built in second person, and very rehearsed,
like i loved in italics and you answered in prose,
too many metaphors, not enough “hoes”
we were punctuation, never the phrase,
a draft with no edits, a permanent maze.
there are words that forge unity, that hold and caress,
but none touched us—we settled for less.
because “we” requires belief,
and belief takes trust,
and trust needs us—
but us never was.
we aren’t together—
it’s you and I,
the conjunction believes,
but it plans our demise.
we is the dream,
and us is the prize,
but I’ve learned to stand
with just me and I.
because all “and” does—
is tie,
then untie.
a promise in print
that never arrives
so let the sentence end here—
not with a period,
but with a reckoning.
because every “and”
was a gamble dressed as glue,
a hope that split me in two.
and if language failed,
it failed loud—
with echoes of us
that never touched the ground.
we spoke in commas,
paused in fear,
waited on conjunctions
that would never appear.
so I tear the page,
let the ink bleed dry—
not to forget,
but to finally clarify:
“and” was the tether,
but never the truth,
a bridge with no landing,
a noose from my youth.
you and me?
we were grammar at war—
syntax pretending to be something more.
and “us”?
“us” was the word we never dared write,
too fragile in daylight,
too honest at night.
but now I know:
you don’t build a bond with a lowercase lie.
you don’t find forever in a line you deny.
so I break the sentence,
I burn the disguise—
not you and me,
not “and,” not “us”—
just me. and I.