It Isn't Wrong...I used your words to form an apologyBecause I didn’t know another wayTo make you acknowledge meBut I’m still here, you knowAs much as I was a year agoI’m going in blind and taking shots in the darkBut I’m pulling every word from the bottom of my heartI’ve had a lot of time to see things straightYou’re someone that I love, that I could never hateThat’s why every time I tried forgetting about youI couldn’t force myself to do what I had to doNow I can see your pain, I’m sorry I put you through itIf there was one thing I could changeYou know that I would undo itI don’t want to live, I don’t want to breatheThe reason we’re like this is all because of meI don’t want you to be yet another closing doorYou think I could care less, darling, I couldn’t care moreTake away from this all the evidence you needI miss you just as much as you say you miss meI want this forced silence to come to
no,what is shared between meand my bladesis all but a secret.late nights, alone,blood stained fingers andhaving to replace the pillowcase in the morning,because my parents will never knowwhat i have started again.and when they see theantidepressantcommercials on TV,they silently think of me.
mascarai don't know why i wear mascara when it always ends up on my cheeks by night.the moon is full but i am not. i'm hungry but it's mostly my eyes. i want to eat the city and the lights, swallow stars and coins in the fountains.instead i'm alone in my apartment, with no glass but small windows facing the brick walls of my neighbours. i am empty except for the bricks which weigh heavily and hollowly at once. i swallow nothing but city air and exhaust, fumigating my lungs in hopes of eradicating the lacke thereof.i am full of tears that were locked up since i was sixteen, pressurised in the marrow of my bones to the point of begrudging congestion. bitterness is what makes eyelashes grow-- there should be no surprise that i can't see.
Monday Morning (I Know)It was mentioned casuallyat the breakfast table:“A boy from schoolcommitted suicide last night.Did you know him?”Yes.I know the waythe night sky wrapped itselfaround his shouldersand ripped itself away,and how to him, light-yearswere a measure of timeand not of distance.I know that darknesswas darker for him,and that light wasalways too bright.I know that smiling was painfulin all seventeen muscles,and that it was a reliefto cry.I know that he carriedthe depression on his shoulders,and that he spent half the dayhiding it away from everyone,and the other halfwishing somebody would notice.I know that he was the best actor,and that everyone believedthat his eyes sparkled from happinessand not from tears.I know that he was so good,he never had to lie and say“I’m fine,” becausenobody ever asked.I also know that today, the hallswill echo with silenceand the occasional small cry,courtesy of the peoplewho never really knew hi
broken knuckles and chipped paintshe was beautifulin the way a whore is beautiful-crude and angry around the edgeswith perfume too strongand a smile strangely uncouth.when she opened her mouthsharp-tongued snakes and well-chosen barbsslithered out and made themselves at homewhile she cupped you in her handsgiggling at the fool in both palms.she was cruelin the way wolves are cruel-not by want or by malicebut by nature and by design.and she'd leave you behindthe first chance she findsgnawing old woundsand lighting the signsand then you'll seeyou'vebeenblind.