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.

Its not so much sadness more the disappointment of thinking I meant something to you and thinking that if I smiled wide enough you would notice my lips and that would make you think about kissing me because all I really wanted was for you to kiss me, but thoughts like that they ricochet off the walls in your head like lead bullets until they fall away into pieces and the impulse was so fleeting it was barely even there, but I still have the image of your lips and your skin branded into my mind and filling my head like wine and I want to get drunk on you and everything that we could have been. But with your blue eyes and my brown hair we were like night and day and when it came to love I was a summer's day and you were December 5th when it snowed and snowed and my lips went blue and you could have made them warm again but your heart didn't beat like mine and now mine is a weak drum beat and yours pounds for someone else and with all this spilled ink that you'll never see I wish you would have just kissed me.