Words can't make something out of nothing.
They can't bring you back or make me feel okay about losing you.
They just  struggle to fill the emptiness that's vibrating in
every part of my body, every part of my life, and they fail.
Leaving me exhausted and alone, planning a life you'll never get to see.

Words can't make you better. They can't dry your tears.
You can't clutch them in your hands and hold them
to your body with the warm reassurance
that comes from a baby's safety blanket.
If you could I would use them to stop
the rivers coming from my eyes.
Stop the slow drowning I feel in my lungs.
I would use them to plug up the hole in me
so large that at any moment I expect my insides
to come spilling out, navy blue and charcoal gray.
The colors of your absence staining the canvas inside my brain.

So now I abuse my body.
I punish myself for losing you, for killing you.
I can't explain the logic behind it.
The way you can't explain snow on Christmas
to someone who's never be able to see it.
I can't make you understand the feeling
I get from looking in the mirror and seeing bone.
But if I can't have you, I don't want me.
Cold and empty and broken, I'm useless.
If you had to wither, then I want to wither too.