Here's a poem I wrote recently
We're being held together by pieces of nostalgia
Because all that's present is shame of who I've become
And hate for who you are

Like everything else
What we had has been ripped away
Manipulated into deformity
I'd cry if I weren't so fucking angry

Sometimes it's easier to hate you
Than mourn the distance between us
Your life crashes to pieces, slowly
I lay stagnant motionless, lowly

Is repair possible if the bridge is too burnt?
Every conversation held together by threads
Too stubborn to burn with the rest
What can be done with tired hands and tiny strands?