I used to be so tired
Those days I often thought about my death
My fantasies involved the kitchen knife

I never had the courage to hurt myself
The attention it might bring, it scared me
The thought of people noticing me, even in death, horrified me
I thought, how embarrassing, how weak

I hardly ever cried back then
I was more angry than sad, more tired than angry
But I cried the day I tried to die

I swallowed as many pills as I could fathom
No one was home, but I still did it with an impatient pace
I was calm when I thought my final words to myself
And I sat in the corner of my kitchen floor,
Hoping that someone would find me despite not wanting to be seen
I wanted that

But

I puked it all out



Ashamed
Disgusted
Frustrated

I cried
I cleaned the mess
I went to bed

I lived.

It's not your dreamy scenery
or the kiss she stained you with.
It's not the words she addressed to me
or the sketch accompanying it.

It's the genuine sentiment you symbolize,
that I both hate and love.
It's the arguments and the picnics
that you remind me of.

It's not your fault
You represent her petty little game.
That I still hold her in my heart,
It's not you I blame.

I've tried to rip you, burn you, trash you,
Yet there you sit on my windowsill
Teasing the memories that despite the time,
are vivid in my mind, still.

It's behind her.
It's behind me.
It's over.
It's done.

You're all I have left.
Please don't weather or tear.
Now that she's gone
and I am still here.