In a world of infinite palettes,
you gave me a single colour
and told me to paint.

I was so scared you wouldn't
frame my work
I never picked up the brush.

By the time you see this, it will be too late.

I asked for help, I screamed for years and I received nothing but empty promises.
I recall praying for something with substance to come into my life, but the only substances I remember having came in dime bags and shot glasses.
I remember carving names into my skin and breaking my own heart, and I know that you were there to see it all go downhill.

By the time you see this, I might still be breathing through pressed lungs.
The air feels like sandpaper, and I can't bare another scratch.
So if my chest still heaves as you read this, know that it's too late to save me from the pain.
The pain is in me, and the pain I have become.
Let me be.

I think I built myself off of what people could write about me
if I lived my life a certain way.

Maybe I read too many sad books,
but I have one hell of a story.

I know this place, it swallows you whole if you stop moving.
It's dark, and not as friendly as the shadows claim to be.
This place is one I've come to know through your troubled hands
and through the slits in my skin, it has come to know me.
Wandering aimlessly without light to find my way out of the abyss,
fighting off the grasp that holds so tightly.
But it's a battle that can't be won
when you're breaking your own bones to be free.

9:30 am dates in the coffee shop
your day starts with a coffee, two creams.
I get a coffee too,
just to keep my hands busy,
but my day starts when I look at you.

How was I supposed to know your most beautiful words would be your last?

It's a shame they came in the form of an apology.
You could have reached out, I swear I would have taken your hand.
I would have stayed up all night to convince you it's alright,
that you don't ever need to hurt yourself.

But I guess you did what you had to do
in order to get back at me, and earn my final sympathies.

I wish I could have told you I loved you
or that I was trying in my own way.
But I guess that if you killed yourself,
that you already must have knew.

sixteen shots and nine hits later,
do I love you still or am I wasted?
pour me another, straight *****.
if I feel you still, I'm sure I'll take it.
puff puff pass, his smoke in my mouth.
seventeen shots and ten hits later,
love is bitter, hard to chase.
no amount of self-destruction will rid my heart
of such an unforgivable taste.