He stares at cars,
Pleading for them to run him down.
The alcohol makes his lips bleed.
End it
He is covered in scars,
End it
Screaming without a sound,
End it
When will it stop?
Byron's words echo,
"Her faults were mine-
her virtues were her own"
Please, no more, please
The back of his eyes
Play the story.
Astarte, Aphrodite
Arches her back,
Drenched in sweat.
He feels at the scares she left on his neck.
Snap back, reality slowly lowers
The knife into his rib.
Lightless, lifeless.
God, is this all there is?
Feb 16, 2013
Feb 16, 2013 at 12:38 AM UTC