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I wrote this unsure if it was supposed to be a poem or a journal entry. When I read it I feel it reads like prose, a narrative, not so much a poem but it does contain poetic devices. It's not finished yet but I don't think I'll be able to finish it for another few months. I want to see where I am then because finishing it in now would be unnatural.

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I can feel the wine in my
thighs, calming no numbing
my heart, like how you used to.
I wish I could walk away--with you or

from you, I'm not yet sure which.

Nor do I know the difference. If there is
truth in the mirror and I
do not know my own reflection, am I
a lie? I want to ask the questions,
or rather question the answers instead,
I want to unravel you so you
might just come undone and taste
the wine on my tongue for
yourself.