Sometimes love is a bug
That you have caught in a jar
You must let them free

**** this life.
I would’ve been
Better off in another one.
Or better still, not at all.

Year after year of pain.
Grief, heartbreak, abuse,
Depression, illness, loss.

A monotonous, never- ending  
Cycle. Black and white.
All colour that was once there
Has faded, slowly and completely.

I’m utterly done with this
****. Where’s the nearest exit?

You can always tell a self destructive writer
By their poetry

Because sometimes they are redundant
And other times they are expressing pain

But they always tell a story of being hurt
And locked into their own head

But this my dear, is why they write
Because the person in their head is trying to get out

Self destructive writers
Are usually dark

But when they are light
They tell you how perfect you are

So that you don't do the same thing
That they did to themselves

Self destructive writers
Don't want you to make their scars
On your arms

Day in, day out, I
gave my whole self
to you, heart, soul
and mind.
Every secret, every
darkness within,
illuminated and laid
bare before you.

Little did I know, that
the security, the safety
I found in you, was but
a result of the microcosm
you had built around just
you and me, cut off from
the world, and from life.

I know this is a cliché, but
they say love is blind, and
by God, did I learn that
the hard way.