she is haunted by a beautiful sweet sadness that won't
                                                                                                 go
                                                                                                     away.

I want to die;
no, actually- I want to live.
but, I want to escape
from the time that traps me
that holds me down
and suspends me underneath
the lack of ticking from the minute hand;
as the clock stares me down
not understanding what goes on in my head.
I want time to move so fast
despite my fear of the future.
I want it to pass by quick
so I wouldn't have moments that would pause completely
and the pain would linger on and on and
it would hurts so much continuously
and I'm frozen in this moment
and time isn't moving
and I can't go on
and my legs won't twitch and my heart won't beat
and I'm just stuck in this moment of complete terror and hurt and
i           don't            know          what         to                      
                                                                                do

her skin opened at the cut
like her lips opened at the hurt.

she cried out into the night when he left 

but when the blood began to drip,
she weeped no more.

put out a cigarette on my tongue

and burn away the words

of yesterday.

I sit here with tear stained cheeks
and a pale face,
typing with shaking fingers in the dark night,
straining a mind consumed with pain to think
of words that no longer sound too foolish
or too youthful.
my heart pounds hard in my chest,
but I no longer feel it
knowing it will only beat for a while more.
my shallow breaths prepare for my final exhalation,
and the warmth in my physique diminishes
to winter once again.

What can I write about a dying girl
who had perished so many years ago?
nothing, honestly.
I sit here, lamenting the loss of someone
I used to know.
the reflection that I saw in the mirror every morning,
the face I used to paste a smile on every day,
the very skin I used to rip apart.
she had died somewhere,
in the midst of all that suffering.
and no one knew I was merely the walking embodiment of her.

And that is why
with icicles for fingers
and a hollow chest where my heart was
I write an elegy
for someone I used to love,
yet could never bring back.
as I am dying
just as she once was.

I wonder why it's made
Why there ever was such thing
To signify-
All signs of pain,
Hopelessness and hurt,
Torture and abuse.
The thick redness of the complicated liquid
Litter eery vessel in our bodies
Giving life
Yet symbolising death.
The very look or feel or texture of it
Almost aches the heart:
The very source of all
Good, pain and mystery.
Emotions run through our blood
In a continuous stream
Of laughter, tears and uncertainty.
That is why,
We're made.
Why: we possess
The things we are meant to have.
To live.
The way we do, now.