Yesterday I wrote my thoughts
with the overspill of red wine, and,
bandaids that fell from my cracked finger tips.
I wrote the words I hated saying,
I wrote the words I said too often,
I wrote what you said when your lips bled.

Your lips bled eight times that night;
your lips bleed when you lie.
I watched you scrape tobacco from
under your nails.
I watched you melt away like a candle wick.

Yesterday I wrote my thoughts.
I cut my hair with razor blades, and,
painted my lips that color you hate.
I burned my favorite photo of you,
I burned the tips of my fingers on the candle,
I burned the dinner I had on the stove.

Yesterday I spilled wine on the couch,
I wrapped my fingers in band-aids,
and I wrote.
I wrote about how your lips bled,
and bled.
But I won't write about that tomorrow.

My biggest mistake was
recording the noises only I heard.
I knew they weren't real;
I wasn't hearing them correctly.

My biggest mistake was
pretending I was alright when I wasnt.
People began to blur over my feelings,
as if always being 'alright' meant I did not have any.

My biggest mistake was
thinking, even for a moment, that I could.
That I could fathom any bit of the situation,
and spit it out so it made sense.

My biggest mistake was
believing that I had even
made a mistake in the first place.

The veins in my wrists are
being removed one by one.
I am relieving myself of the pressure,
and giving myself all my doubt.

I've drained myself of all my feelings,
because I could not handle them as well
as I should.
And I disdain the feelings I get in my fingertips,
then I crave the dissatisfaction that attaches itself
to me.

And you.

And you are weeping like a person of stone,
and you are making waves with the pressure
and the discontent that surrounds you on and ordinary basis.

And I.
I am a mess that even you cannot figure out,
nor piece together to make sense of anything.
While I let you down, and you fall because I am not
strong enough to hold both of us up.
I let myself fall so often that it makes it more difficult
to lift you from such a crater.

So I.
I hate myself every time I attempt to make things
right again,
by placing banner outside my door frames, and,
pretending like it's all okay again. Because I know its not.

And that mockingbird does not sing anymore,
and we say we are trying but I think we've both given up.
Because we seem happy in the company of unhappiness,
but when we are in our own solitude cell of our misery
we can no longer sustain ourselves.

So I am far too weak to make things right,
or cure things, or you.
Or fix things, like you.
I am not the savior of this story,
nor am I the villain.
I try to be the hero but I fail at that
as well.

And I.
I am sorry that I cannot be a statue for you.
Or a tower of arms that can serve as your protection.
Because I am weak, and I am wrong, and I have
sacrificed myself to all of my insecurities and
I have let you down in the process.

The tiles are much colder when
you are cemented into their core.
When nothing can erase it, and,
you can't get off the floor.

Settle into darkness,
my name without a face.
Because something tells me honestly,
there's a virtue in need a replace.

And I'm twisting like a knife,
but the only thing that's stings me is
my heart, and
I never knew I had one,
and now I wish I never did.

I feel it like a poison but
its only my imagination
because every time I cry,
it isnt killing me but I hope
you know it feels like it.

And I cannot stop my sobbing
because I am not as strong as
I think I am, and I am not
as emotionless as everyone
says that I am.

Because when I weep at 2 am
I know I am real, and I know
that I can feel,
and when you leave I feel a
void that only hits me and makes
me falter even more than I have
the night before,
and it hurts me with a greater

pain than one could even imagine.

and there is nothing I could do
after that because then
i am broken
and i am lost
and i am gone forever.