I write about abandoned homes,
and forgotten souls, and memories
that creep in the darkest corners of my mind;

I write about loneliness,
and broken promises,
and words carved on my skin,

I write about the bloodstains on the snow,
and the remains of a car crash,
and how the wind hums a sad song

I write about the wolf
who cries at night,
howling for the moon’s response,

I write about shattered windows,
about empty halls,
and places with the stench of alcohol and regret

I write about cracks on the walls
and shadows that scare
the hell out of people,

I write about how that boy’s father died,
how his mother left,
and how that girl took her own life.

You see, I only write about tragedies;

don’t make me write about you.