minus the pain that youve been giving me all these days. yes, im still doing fine.

my words foam up and come out in squeaks and stutters
and i always say all the wrong words
and embarrass you in front of your friends
my words are spat, not spoken when we're fighting and i'll say
anything anything anything
even if it is so cold and so acidic that my chest hurts
after it's left my throat
my words are too loud, too harsh, too demanding
empty promises snorted away
over and over again

your fingers tracing my thigh
and you look at me like you want to memorize every part

what a difference a year makes

you sneer at me from across the room
the only way people know we're together is when someone else tells them

i can't blame you for giving up on me
i can't blame you for falling out of love
i can't blame you for seeking comfort in someone else

i'm still here
and i'd do anything to be what you want again

my words don't mean
much of anything
anymore

tell them i was the
warmest place you knew
and that



you turned me cold

I don't think I'll write
A suicide note.

What an obvious
Statement, when
I'm plainly not
Contemplating suicide.

But I never liked the idea
Of suicide notes.

And it was not
The idea that
Somebody had
Killed themselves.

It was the idea that
Somebody could have such a sad
Life that they could fit
All they had to say into one letter.