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 fucking 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.