It was not my intention to let you become important to me. If I was paying attention you would be dust in the wind, but you caught me unaware and now I want you to stay

Build me castles made of empty promises
like everyone else and I will use your lies like bricks to build walls

I pick up a pen like some pick up a razor blade.
I pull the pen across paper and watch my emotions spread liquid and black across a sea of delicate white.
I can’t pick which ones I’m feeling.
I do not have that talent.
It’s all or nothing and it’s crippling.
For me it’s not a hobby.
It’s a compulsion, a release.
You are reading my self inflicted scars and calling it art.