How do people do this every night?
Go to bed all alone,
knowing there isn't anyone
to fill that side of the bed?
Curling up into myself,
I try to ignore the fact
that I'm completely alone,
no one here to wrap around.
But ****, is it lonely
and sad, so ******* sad.
Sunlight brings welcome respite,
because during the day I'm able
to pretend all is well.
But night, oh god, the night.
I dread having to lie in bed
knowing too **** well it's me
and me alone to fill that space.
And no matter how tightly
I wrap my arms around myself,
they're no substitute for yours.

I should come with a ******* warning label,
cautioning others about my tendencies
toward self-destruction,
and warning them of the consequences
of choosing to get too attached
to the inevitable time bomb of me.

I try to warn them away,
but they don't listen,
or they brush it off as nonsense.

"You shouldn't love me," I say,
eyes deep with grief
because I know the truth of the words.

But nobody heeds my ******* warnings,
so I'm left stepping over the remains
of us, having to live with the knowledge
of what I've done.

******, I tried to tell you.
But no one ever listens,
they refuse to believe.

And in the end I'm left having to watch
you shatter, knowing I'm the cause.
I tried to warn you.
You should've listened.

I had lost sight of myself,
probably more than a little,
and now I'm having to fight
to get myself back again.

It's not easy finding out
which aspects are extraneous,
and it's a terribly sad process,
cutting out parts of yourself.

But the process is necessary
to pare it down to the
true individual within.

So it's been a mad method
of drunken nights and
evenings brimming with tears
that have propelled me along.

But with each drop
of alcohol down my throat
my mind clears up a bit.
And with each drop
of a tear down my cheek
my vision is a little less blurred.

I had lost sight of myself a little,
but I'm gaining ground every day
on who I'm really meant to be.

The pressure builds and builds
until I've ballooned so big
that a piece of me jostles loose
and begins
               floating
                           off.
I
           leap
    after it, aghast,
and clutch it firmly to my chest.
Only when I go to place it
back in its rightful spot
            do I notice
                   other remnants gone
                missing, floating
                               wayward.
Gasping, rushing to catch them
     all before I'm completely lost,
I hurriedly put them back
     and rush to grab more.
Only after securing the last piece
     do I realize
that in my haphazard haste
I've put myself together
                                 all wrong.

The one person I want
                                           to talk to most is
the person I need
                                           to stay away from.
And how can I decide between
the one who
                                takes my breath away
and the one who
                                makes it so I can breathe?

I've lost all semblance of myself,
an island that I unwillingly left behind.
Stepping gingerly at first
to test the water upon my toes,
venturing further as I grew bolder,
only to turn around
and find the shore gone,
all sight of land lost.
Now I'm stuck, treading,
tiring quickly.
And I've no idea which direction
I'm supposed to swim
to find myself again.