Your face wasn't a photograph,
Nor was it perfection.
No emotion, no sanction.
Very three-dimensional
Very real.
Every inch of your body
Your words, your life;
Real.
This is tearing me into thousands of tiny pieces.
Ripped pieces of paper
In an overflowing mountain in a bin.
A scrapbook
Inside live scribbles of my
Dead, overly sensitive insides.
Every single tear dried my body
Of hydration.
Can you die from crying too much?
Syllables of your words:
Promises to being a better person.
But I want to be elsewhere
I can totally close my eyes and
Become blind temporarily.
Regrettably, it was my fault.
My very own words, caused me the hurt
That you then further induced.