did you really love me?
or were you too busy
making out with white lines
forced by the hunger
starvation
to feel something.
anything.
i'm sorry
i know its selfish of me but i
can't help but wish i could've been what you longed for.
and maybe i'll never be.
maybe it'll always be this circle of me loving
you leaving
me justifying and the
both of us lying to cover up the painful truth
that we’re both
dying.
you from a lackluster life
me from hypothermia.
cold from your shoulder
cold from your glassy eyed stare
cold from too many nights staying up alone
blood shot eyes
shaky hands
scribbling notes madly
not mad with passion
or love or even some
narcissistic desire to mark my spot before i burn out like the sun.
I write with pain
words ******* exploding out of me
making themselves known like an involuntary tic
lurching my body
my body ridding itself of a vile poison
of the vile words you put in my head in the first place
so you ask me why the hell am i still here.

and all i can say is that
i don't know.

i was hoping the saying blood is thicker than water


still counts
that maybe in some parallel universe
you could still be my mom
before your love for the ivory
took you away.