If hearts could speak, mine would shout.
If words truly healed, mine would shatter.
If death could talk, mine would whisper.
If sorries were medicine, mine would be poison.
I think the tears I’ve cried could fill an ocean.
Judgment — they say — that’s the least I’ve gone through.
But does it really hurt?
Or... is it just a pigment of my imagination?

My body refuses to move sometimes.
Or maybe... it’s my heart
that’s too weary of everything.
Nobody understands — nobody will.
Betrayal is one thing.
Deception is another.
I’m in love with a narcissist and a gaslighter.
And I’m still learning
how to relax and let the ship sink.

I’m sorry I didn’t do my best.
I’m sorry I’m weak. But...
in my next life,
I’ll wish to be a fly — at least.

I’m sorry
to those my mental health has affected.
I keep everyone in the dark...
but I find myself getting lost there too.

My imagination is wild —
very wild.
I don’t know how to feel,
but someday, maybe, I might.

I remember the times
I used to be happy.
That smile disappeared
a long time ago, I suppose.

What a nightmare to relive.
What a dream to abandon

One day, I will run — and never look back.
Go — and never come back.
Love is a metaphor.
Or, I suppose... irony.

I’ve accepted my imperfections
and the tangles of a broken heart.
My Deity helps me a lot —
or by now,
I would have been embroidered in a sarcophagus.

If cannibalism was allowed between people,
we would tear each other apart.

Maybe one day,
I’ll find my spectrum.

I’ve learned to accept situations —
to stay quiet
around those I can’t handle.

As William Shakespeare once said:
"The devil is not in hell. He’s here among us."