I used to write poems for a girl who couldn’t understand the concept of depth
I meant death
Because seven years ago
I used my blood as ink
And my skin as the paper
But today I write poems for one girl
And for the empire I have built
With my blood
With my flesh

But sweetheart, this isn’t about me.

You like poetry now because
You understand what it feels like
To be ripped apart
From the inside out

Let me ask you this:

Depression doesn’t seem so funny
When you experience a broken heart first hand
Does it?
Dying instead of living without the one you love
Doesn’t seem so dramatic when she finds someone else
2 months later to kiss goodnight
Does it?

Realizing that your past lovers weren’t the ones with the problem
But the reflection looking back at you
Every day makes a little more sense


Doesn’t it?