Watch as the stream of melancholy spills from my bruised and blackened heart and flows through the veins of the ones I call friends. The ones who I need to call me friend.
And look closely at the seams that run along my chest from the cuts I made when I gave you my love. The scars, the reminders of my naive actions that keep me awake at night,
And it's okay to feel fear when you look into the portrait of macabre that I paint of myself. Will I ever be okay? Will I ever be whole? If I write poems crying for help will I ever get a ******* answer?
So now I stare at unfinished letters. Thoughts of recovery left behind. And the echos of a heartbreak never sounded so ******* pathetic. I can't seem to cope with hatred, I can't seem to cope with grief, I can't seem to find comfort in the "safety" of my memories.