I guess you could call it poetic how by the age of 12 I had no recollection of what happiness tasted like on my tongue. Some would say it was tragically beautiful.
But it was not poetic, nor was it beautiful,  but it was tragic. It was so very, very sad, and that sadness is only doubled now that people see sorrow as glorious.  It is not glorious. It is not strength. It is a lump of iron in your chest and stomach and it eats you from the inside, out and you have no right to think that blood stained wrists are anything other than tragic. So very,  very tragic.

All day I think.
I think about the "what-if's"
And the "could-be's."
I daydream about you,
About us,
Without having to tiptoe around,
Or having to keep it all hush-hush.
Sipping coffee for hours
And laughing about nothing.

I daydream about the next time
It could be just us.
Looking through old records,
Driving no where for the hell of it,
Still laughing about nothing.

But it's all useless
Cause you do that with someone else
That I could never be.
But we bank on all this lost hope
And for some reason I still daydream about it all.

I still daydream about sipping coffee for hours,
About driving no where for the hell of it,
About looking through old records.
And I've finally learned what I'd been laughing at this whole time.

Me.