sad people
always try and
make other
people happy

because they
know how
terrible it is
to feel worthless

When you speak, the listener understands you. When you write, the reader understands themselves.

A tender touch down your spine,
Unfold your delicate rib cage,
The ink that is your blood,
The stories you hold
Pulsing beneath the title that is your skin.

He used to know her.
He remembers her.
He knows her.

He does not know her now.
He cannot know her now.
He will not know her now.

Her hair is red, like the
blood dripping down
her neck.

He remembers when
her hair would glow
in the sun.

She is not a blonde.
Not anymore.

Her eyes are black, empty,
the soft caramel brown
that he used to know is gone.

Her cheeks are covered
with blue marks,
and her skin is broken
in many places.

Blood drips down her shoulder.
She limps as her wing hangs
broken behind her,
dragging in the mud.

She is not who he remembers.
But she is who he will never forget.

I keep sleeping because
when I sleep I don't
get to think of you.