America, please
let your paper-heart bleed
for the poor.

It's been a week; I know you said
sometimes it may be hard to write.
I understand, I really do –
I've been very busy, too,
learning how to sleep at night
and falling out of love with you.

I caught my mother crying once,
at the kitchen table, face in one hand
dishtowel in the other,
real crying, out loud crying;

I wanted to be anywhere else,
and would have run
had she not heard me,
had she not pressed the dishtowel to her eyes
and said

“I'm just so tired of walking on eggshells.”
like an eight year old would understand,
but I did,
kind of.

For a
moment

I thought I (love)d you.

It's a tough word, it really is,
when you're sobbing behind a bottle,
bleeding red wine from the corners of your mouth.
It would be simpler to express this sober,
but you know as well as anyone
no one's ever sober anymore.

The inebriates are saying "happy ******* Valentine's Day"
to everyone who decided to break the glass the past year.
The antidepressants are speeding up my heart beat,
praying that this time it'll be my name you're crying about.

Even if it's for the wrong reason.

This room is hallow and empty
I needed you to protect me
Far away from the morning light
I'll find the piece of me you left behind
Too scared to shiver, too scarred to care
These actions; imitations of what I think you want to hear

Further I'm sinking in my own thoughts
Bare with me one more second, lead me out, I am caught
You turn your head and walk away
"I wont help you" you mutter on your way
You broke me it's true,
but a broken me is still stronger than a whole you

I'll make my way out, soon enough
I don't need your hand or discouraging thoughts
I'll find you in my darkest hours, then leave you for the light
And I'll take back all my power and whisper to you: "good night".