Fake smiles, but teary eyes.
Alone in my room crying at night.

i'm just gonna hide the scars with a sweater
can't tell them i don't actually feel better.

i'm so sad but i can't tell you why
"i'm just tired" is my favourite lie.

It's almost christmas and everyone's happy
But in winter time i just feel so ******

I don't know why i feel so bad
truth is i'm just another depressed sociopath

You are the book that everyone tells me not to read.
You are the worn book in the darkened corner of the library that sits on the highest shelf.
But is it wrong that my heart is drawn to the darkness and deepness of what I know that I cannot have, to feel the desire and give into the temptation to climb the mountains of worn oak to reach you.
You, my dear, are the leather bound, Scarlett-lettered memoir that I want to pick up, grasp in my hands, and open.
I want to learn about what they say is forbidden.
I want to read what I'm not supposed to want.
I want to know you.

i am an artist
of my own
destruction

i dabble in
shades
of crimson

my only
canvas
is a sheet
of pale flesh

and my artistry
is to
die
for