The butterflies in my stomach have all escaped.
Apparently, you can’t care for butterflies when you can barely care for yourself.
My head was filled with sparkles and dreams.
Now, all that remains is ivy and streams.
I only think poisonous thought
and streams of love and lust and heart break and hurt flow from my eyes down my cheeks.
We used to hold hands, now all I hold is this knife.
I contemplate if I should cut myself into a trillion tiny pieces.
I'm continuously trying to make my outsides feel like my insides.
When you’d kiss me, it felt electric yet safe-
I could live off of you
instead of oxygen.
Now the only thing touching my lips is this joint.
Bellows of smoke stomp down my esophagus into my lungs,
beating me up on the inside-
like an army protecting its country-
except noting is protecting me.
***** has become my best friend,
except she’s constantly burning my eyes.
I guess when you drink her like water, she comes out as tears.
My heart used to sound like morning birds and smell like a bed of roses.
Now all that remains is emptiness and longing and
shards of my heart are stabbing my other barely working organs.
It’s cold in here and you’re no longer around to turn up the heat.
The frostbite has begun to set in and even though my lips are turning blue and there is ice forming around my shoulders,
you won’t even get up to bring me a ******* blanket.