The veins in my wrists are
being removed one by one.
I am relieving myself of the pressure,
and giving myself all my doubt.

I've drained myself of all my feelings,
because I could not handle them as well
as I should.
And I disdain the feelings I get in my fingertips,
then I crave the dissatisfaction that attaches itself
to me.

And you.

And you are weeping like a person of stone,
and you are making waves with the pressure
and the discontent that surrounds you on and ordinary basis.

And I.
I am a mess that even you cannot figure out,
nor piece together to make sense of anything.
While I let you down, and you fall because I am not
strong enough to hold both of us up.
I let myself fall so often that it makes it more difficult
to lift you from such a crater.

So I.
I hate myself every time I attempt to make things
right again,
by placing banner outside my door frames, and,
pretending like it's all okay again. Because I know its not.

And that mockingbird does not sing anymore,
and we say we are trying but I think we've both given up.
Because we seem happy in the company of unhappiness,
but when we are in our own solitude cell of our misery
we can no longer sustain ourselves.

So I am far too weak to make things right,
or cure things, or you.
Or fix things, like you.
I am not the savior of this story,
nor am I the villain.
I try to be the hero but I fail at that
as well.

And I.
I am sorry that I cannot be a statue for you.
Or a tower of arms that can serve as your protection.
Because I am weak, and I am wrong, and I have
sacrificed myself to all of my insecurities and
I have let you down in the process.