Please dig your nails into my hand,
because I feel so far from land,
even though my legs are buried in the sand,
my heart has a certain ache,
and inside my mind; I quake,
just sitting here together, staring out at the lake,
do you hear the wake,
hear the downfall of my inside structure,
hear me stall; hear me rupture?
It might be better,
if I had sent that letter,
maybe there would be no stress,
maybe if I could confess,
but I wont, and it's not,
so I will sit here; letting my heart rot,
knowing that you call yourself mine but truth you are not,
it feels like a dream,
like any moment my ears should blow out steam,
from all your heat,
from all of my embarrassing defeat,
because I feel all of this is just a tease,
all of this has me on such great unease,
it's eating at me like a disease,
it no longer scares,
to know you are truly theirs.
In fact I'd say it's fine,
but I think I've got to draw a line,
where I let go of your hand,
and I stand,
I will apologize,
and secretly wish inside; that you begin to despise,
all that I am,
and that I am; all that you damn,
and I wish you knew so many things you will never know,
like how in my heart I will never let you go,
or how I love the way your hands go through my hair,
how you basically are my air,
while my words were honey, your words were stings,
so you'll never hear these things.