How naïve was I?
To think that I could cease bleeding-
Bleeding into words like it healed me somehow.

How I thought the warmth of love would stitch the pieces of my heart,
And my heart would stop bleeding sad poetry like it used to.
But it did.
It stopped long enough,
False promising a forever.

But how naïve was I?
To think that I could go much far from home-
Far from the comforting grasp of my anguish tearing into black inks of beautiful despair.