i'm just a rusty knife stuffed in the back of a drawer whose occupation is collecting dust. everything i do sounds like nails on a chalkboard but i don't care, it's not like i can change it anyway. there's a sour taste in my mouth that tastes a little like ***** and a lot like the acrid words i keep to myself. i'm choking on the smoke left behind by a broken promise that's burnt itself all the way down. the lacerations on my wrists may have healed but the scars will always remain like the hole you left in me. i'm rotting away in my room but it's not like i belong anywhere else so i guess it's okay.

i'm sorry i ever bothered and i'm sorry i ever tried. it's not like you gave a **** about me anyway, you made that pretty **** clear when you decided to abandon me.