I can't tell you what it's like to feel like dying.
I can't tell you how I'm so afraid of death but I play with it like its a childhood friend.
I can't tell you what it's like to cry yourself to sleep for the 47th night in a row.
I can't tell you how I feel when I wake up screaming in the middle of the night.
I can't tell you, but I can show you.
I can show you what it's like to feel like dying in my playful smile and dull eyes.
I can show you what it's like to be afraid of death but play with it because I have scars on my body but I refuse to go to a funeral.
I can show you what it's like to cry yourself to sleep for 47 nights in a row by my blood shot eyes and bags underneath with tear stains covering my pillow.
And I can show you how It feels to wake up in the middle of the night screaming by the empty Xanax bottle in the bottom of my purse.
I can't always tell you the things that are going through my mind, but you can't say that I never showed you.

The worst memories are the cleanest,
Visited so regularly no dust collects,
No spiders crawl in to spin their webs.

The walls are yellowed with smoke,
And the table's water damaged with rings,
From all the hours spent there pondering.

The worst memories are the cleanest,
Organized daily to keep them clear,
Polished and treated like a shrine.

The curtains are heavy and allow no light,
The air is heavy and tastes like the sea,
Once you're there it's hard to leave.