I can write about my pain in lines,
Black mascara running down my cheeks with tears,
Needles piercing my nerves with stabs,
It hurts to think of you and what you did.
By not being there,
Not loving me.
Not needing me.

I was good to you.

You took my heart and twisted it,
Tucking it between a rock and hard place.
It was beating but bruised,
Shaking and shivering.
You cut it out while it still beat.
And wore it on your sleeve.

I can write of this pain in ink,
Bleeding my heart out on paper.
Writing you into my memories,
Writing you out of my subconscious.
And yet you're an inkstain on my paper and thumb.
You linger in the lines left behind.