I don't need anyone to console me
Don't pick up my pieces scattered on the floor
All I want is for someone, just once, to sit in the shards
And bleed with me

her wrists
bleeds with her pain
she hides
beneath sweaters
beneath sleeves
she doesn’t want to talk
she doesn’t want to share

i hold my words
like shards of glass
my voice
rusts from things left unsaid

she carries the weight of the world
and the best i can do
is hold her close
when she falls

i stand and i wait
for her to let me
be the one to bleed instead

Death—
the easiest cure to everything.
Every pain.
Every wound.
Every drop of blood
I spilled when I wasn't enough.

Every word that cut,
every memory that stayed,
every moment I begged the world to stop hurting.

It's so easy to die—
all at once.
But most days,
we die slowly,
quietly enough
that no one notices.

We smile.
We laugh.
We disappear,
a little more each time.

And when I finally go,
they’ll burn me beneath wood and smoke,
and forget.
Everything I carried—
gone.
To most,
I was just another sad story.
Just another silence.

But the ones who truly saw me,
they watched it happen—
day after day,
minute by minute.
They saw my eyes go hollow.
They saw joy bleed out of me,
until all I had left
was a heart too tired to beat.

you would do well to remember
that I'm not made of stone
thousands of papercuts into
my armor, it splits and I
bleed unto paper.
...
I wish I could bleed out in
your arms, instead.

Dejection holds same weight as an arrow the second it is pierced into the heart.
Before the restricted movement there’s a pause
of uncertainty.
Doubt.
Oscillation comes into play as I fluctuate between fear and acceptance.
I hold my tongue to prevaricate what is already bleeding from my chest.
I yearned for you how flesh craves
to knit itself over a wound.
Ungrateful, I’ll always be.
Mercy was never an option, an arrow to the heart.
Dejection—directly to the chest.
Shall he never know I still bleed for all the right reasons.
For all the reasons I bleed for you.

It's a shame really.... how much paper I've wasted on you.
how many time's I've sat in my room in the late hours of the night replaying everything you did to me.... everything we did to each other.
how I bleed on paper, pouring out the deepest corners of my soul to the only thing that will listen.
still it is a shame how I continue to waste words, paper and ink on you.... how I manifest great sentences to describe how you hurt me.
you don't deserve them, you truly don't deserve anything I've given you, but even after your gone I still manage to sacrifice pieces of myself for you.
I'll sit and waste hour's on something that's supposed to be beautiful.... but you made painful.  
I guess in a way, I hold a pen like you never held me....