Oh, turpentine
meet Caroline.

She's diverting and lovely,
but no painter.

Completely misses a warning
on the container.

Her skin is pale
and thin as paper.

In contact with the flame
she turns to vapor.

You said my pain was so poetic,
And I was cutting myself to the bone,
Squeezing the blood on the pages so you could hear me,
Nothing about my suffering is poetic,
Screaming into my sheets and trying to claw memories out of my chest,
Burning myself and forcing me to remember things I’d rather forget,
Breaking down crying and begging to be laid to rest,
You called me a beautiful tragedy,
But I believe you can only have beauty,
Or tragedy,
And I am the latter.