I can't really express much,
but think of my heart's condition as that of a bed bathed in the filtered light of a curtained window.
Small slits of optimism, amidst suffocating sheets of thoughts.

The others don't see the smile that wavers so easily,
the balance held so precariously.
A sunset postponed again, and again,
like the tide that teases
a desert with hourly breezes.

(Gosh, today's a **** writing day, isn't it?)
I feel like my heart bleeds with all the words unsaid.
I have to write something.

I don't crave the face that is yours,
nor the arms that have held so many,
since me.

I can't say my eyes have experienced drought
since you
And though it kills me to admit it,
The strength I thought I always possessed was diluted by the blood of those who felt the same
since us.
It wouldn't be lies to confide that I miss so much of you,
and that the sheer cliches of youth & love hold true now.
But still I can't find fault in myself.
I did it all.
For you.
For us.

So now it's aggressive scarring and angry eyes,
behind the company of my closest,
in front of your silence.

What the **** is wrong with you, anyway?
You're more than somebody I used to know.
You're a stranger.