When you fail at loving others, you won't think of suicide.
Because suicide is the imaginary house you built with her.
Suicide is the family and life you built with her in the late night time.
When you fail, you will hide all the knives in your house.
If you get your hands on them, you'll carve her name into every surface you can reach. This includes yourself.
Her smile is almost equivalent to kittens, I say almost because kittens couldn't light your heart on fire like her smile does.
The few times you've touched her hair, will be the few times you remember so late at night when your demons are suffocating you.
You always got mad when she spoke bad about herself.
If she loved someone as imperfect as you, how did she hate herself?
Its all silly thoughts.
She never loved herself, but loved every inch of you.
But, you are the same. You loved absolutely every inch of her. But never loved yourself.
She was the cream and sweet touch to every scar upon your thighs and arms.
She melted you down and made you feel good.
That one day you lost her. And guilt spreads in your chest like a cage trying to contain a garden of thorns.
Your stomach rumbles of hunger, but you're not hungry.
You resist eating, and your stomach is ripping from the inside.
Her hair, her smile, rips you apart more than your stomach.
More than the guilt that is spreading in your chest.
When she doesn't answer your messages, you can see yourself on the 32nd floor of a building.
You watch as your own heart jumps out of your chest and commits suicide on the pavement.  
You are sorry for being a failure to such a beautiful ray of sun.
Her eyes will wonder to others, while yours will continue to stay on her.
Even though she took your mind off your tics, and disorders.
Even though she made you feel safe, almost as though you stopped suffocating.
You have to smile, because she smiles.
And God, you love that smile.