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Curly hair,
bright blue eyes,
you couldn't see past
the disguise.

You let me make
your heartbeat shake,
and felt my love reverberate
inside your chest,
making me your only reason for happiness...

but that's where it ends.
your happiness is dependent on me,
and truthfully,
that terrifies me.

It's selfish to make me feel
like I have to love you;
for yourself.
You're giving me that responsibility and
making me not only fight my own demons,
but fight yours In the progress.


It's never made because you drag me back,
your happiness drags me back,
back to those same words that are almost
like an apology I am saying to myself,
like my head is apologizing
to my heart
and to my

Because who are you to give me more demons than
I already have.

Your love is a joke.
you pass off your demons to other people
and develop feelings
based on how they handled

You trash talk the ones
not strong enough to support
the weight that somebody's happiness
and slowly,
they start to sink too.

And when they're both drowning,
how are they to save each other?
"Shall I be your siren?"
We entwine our hearts,
growing into each other.
So when things fall apart,
and the other decides to pull away,
we're ripping ourselves up by the roots,
and cutting into our own skin,
to get a taste of freedom
In the sunlight.

I was once your sunlight....

You won't need water from the rain
we kissed so dearly in.
My tears will forever be enough
to watch you grow,
while I sit alone,
giving you the water from my body
and watching you thrive
as I shrivel and die
at your
She sleeps in my soul,
and sometimes,
She wakes up at night,
and She plays with my dreams,
showing me what's hidden
in the mind
She shares with
Play with my soul until I am no more
I am a fire,
Destructive and Uncontrollable.
I will say what I want,
and take full responsibility
for the consequences.
Because if a fire
burns everything in it's path,
all it will be left with,
is a pile of ash.
but maybe it likes it that way
Take me to the places I've dreamed,
the ones inside my mind.
The faces I don't recognize,
but I know that they're my kind.
Their voices are unknown,
stuck inside my head.
And the worst time
when they come to me most,
is when I lay upon my bed.
I can remember
gourds made into art
and the times when I was younger,
my mind fuzzy and blurred.
So take me back to those places,
so I might remember what
I'd heard.

— The End —