What tore us apart?
Was it the drugs?
You were always high on something.
Or you going out with a different girl every night?
You never slept alone.
You told me once you loved me,
I felt your breath fan my ear
And it felt like butterflies were roaming my stomach
But it took the breath from the kiss
For me to realize it was only the alcohol talking.
Was it the alcohol that tore us apart?
You were always drunk.
I didn’t care that you were 21
I didn’t care you’d been to prison
And I didn’t care that you could go back.
I tried to save you,
Tried to help,
But you were too far gone.
The sad thing is,
It took me too long to realize
That you didn’t want to be saved.
I almost destroyed myself for you.
Maybe it could have been different
Had we both been sober.
Sometimes it felt as though
You wanted me to let you go
But I refused to do such a thing
And I refused to leave you
Just like everyone else had.
Even though you ignored me
For days at a time
With no explanation
And it made me so mad
That I’d hit the wall
Until my hand was numb,
And my knuckles were purple.
Even though every time you went
To your probation officer
It made me so nervous
That I could have puked.
Even though you were bad for me
I wanted to be the good thing
That you actually tried for.
I cried for ages it seemed
When I realized it would never be that way.
Because how do you know
What you want to try for
When you’re so drunk
That you can’t stand?
Or so high,
That you can’t think straight?
Or maybe,
So far gone in someone else
That all you can see is them underneath you?
I’d still like to know which it was
That ruined us first
Or if it was a combination of it all.
But most of all,
I want you to look back
And realize that you lost
The one that would’ve stuck by you
Through anything.
No matter what happened.
Although I wish you
The best of luck with her.
I do ask you,
Not to come back
If she leaves when times get tough.

Perfect, clean skin
Destroyed by the edge of a knife
And the addiction to the blood
Dripping, running, escaping with all the pain.
The temptation, every time a release was needed.
A release from all the pain, the anger, the sadness, the hurt.
A promise, broken by him and kept by her.
The temptation to watch her skin split open,
To watch the blood stain her arm,
Flowing like a river.
The same question every day,
“Is it worth it?”
Worth it to keep the promise if it had already been broken?
It was already broken, so only one she decided.
But, one turned to two, two to three, and three to five.
Straight down, no hesitation, no way to be stitched up.
So, when he found her lying on the bathroom floor,
Her crimson life pooling around her, matting her hair,
And a note stained red.
He picked it up carefully and read,
“I’m sorry. I broke the promise too. I’m sorry it went this far and you had to find me like this. If they can’t save me, if you didn’t find me in time, I want you to know this is the only promise to you I’ve broken. I’ll love you forever and always, no matter what, and I’m sorry. I love you.”
He dropped the paper with shaking hands
He screamed at her to wake up, though he knew it was too late.
Gathering her in his lap, he held her in his arms for the last time, his tears mixing with her blood.
Burying his head in her hair, he whispered,
“I’m so sorry. I know I did this to you. Please come back to me baby. I need you. I love you.”
And his blood mixed with hers as he lay, dying,
Next to the only love he’d ever known
And the only one he wanted for the rest of his life.

Tear stained eyes,
Blood stained wrists,
No one knows it was the old her
That she really missed.
They said it'd get better,
But all they spoke were lies,
They never knew how hard it really hit her,
Until they found out she died.
"All your fault," she wrote,
Ink smeared from tears,
"How could you do this to me?"
All she felt was fear.
Now she feels nothing,
The moments before were pure bliss,
She only saw the memories
Of when she used to be her old self.

Built up by lies,
cut down by knives.
He said he loved her,
then switched sides.
Incapable of loving,
he said he was.
"Let me teach you."
It's what she does.
He said he loved her,
then took it back,
little does he know,
her wrists are slashed.
And all because of some stupid lie,
and ink pen on her side
that read the word, 'mine'.

When I say I like to talk about personal things, I don't mean ***.
I don't want to talk about what you'd do to me.
Or what you think it would feel like to have my hands all over you.
No.
I want to talk about the stars, space, if it scares you that we're merely a speck of nothingness in a sea of emptiness.
I want to know what scares you, and why.
The things you hate, or what you want to do with your life.
I want to hear about the places you love, and the ones you have loved without ever seeing.
I want to hear those things, not what you want to do to me in bed.