But I don't think I'll ever forget the time you said
I was a desirable mess.
One who's goodness overbalanced the constant atrocities I put both of us through on the daily.
The routine text messages of,
"I need you."
and
"I ****** up."

And a text is all you'll ever get
because the anxiety was just too much to leave a voice mail
or listen to your heartbroken voice as I tell you,
"I want to die" over the phone.

I wish I could lie and say that
someone has stuck around longer than the
purple and blue ringing my eyes.

I wish I could lie and compare myself to a mosaic;
A little broken,
but still able to be made into a beautiful piece of art.

And I wish I could lie and say that
the scars littering my bony wrists
and destroyed forearms
don't hold stories of the tragic downfall
of the person I used to be.

A desirable mess.
What a wonderful thing to be called.
One who is utterly flawed,
yet still craved by an individual.