half-bleed poems,
drained out tears.
not too much to
produce ink.

stained heart,
too damaged to
feel anything.
pale hands,
weak to even
hold a thing.

soggy eyes,
to even see something.
mouth shut,
can’t even tell a thing.

i’m too broke,
but i’m trying to hold
myself out of everything.
you see, it’s always the
other way around.
just like what everyone
would probably say.

you were never there,
you never care.
i was dying inside,
and you don’t even
know a thing.