as usual,
your name will flood my thoughts,
until all that is left of my once sane mind
are little pools of you -
puddles of your existence.
raindrops on the fogged up window that is the cloudy reality of my brain.

as much as i appreciate it,
please do not tell me my sadness is poetic as an attempt to make me feel better.
there is nothing poetic about hating yourself,
nothing at all poetic about making yourself throw up and then running to a scale to see if you've made any progress.
there is nothing poetic about being so unhappy that you take a blade to your wrist, drawing blood just to prove to yourself that you are alive.
so please,
next time save your attempt to make me feel better.
because all you're doing is making me even sadder.

and when you said that, man,
that hurt.
it felt like you took the sharpest knife in your drawer and pierced it right through
my already torn up heart.
it felt like you took my heart right in your hands
and tore it to bits.
sometimes i believe
that your intentions were to hurt me
but then my subconscious speaks up and says,
"he didn't hurt you. well he didn't mean to. the only one who intentionally hurts you is yourself."
and i think that's maybe why i blame myself for everything.

sometimes i sense an evil presence around me,
and i am not sure if those are just
the evil, demanding voices that occupy my mind
or if it is your ghostly presence,
you still haunt me even though you've been gone for seven months
your presence is evil,
in the nighttime it whispers mean things to me
things like,
"i never loved you."
"you never meant anything to me."
"you never mattered."
i can't decipher if those voices belong to you
or if they are the same old voices that have been present in my head

but i think it's the same voice anyways.