You, my friend,
are a broken masterpiece.
You were carved out of shattered glass
and you continually forced your cracks
like broken heirlooms,
not that I ever had a problem with that,
I jammed my cracks into yours
just as forcefully,
I think my biggest mistake was thinking
that you could fix them.
Your eyes are worn with things
no boy should have seen,
the leather falling from your boots
and your skin is chipping,
nothing will be left of you but a memory.
What's sad is that
I'm not sure I have a problem with that either.
I gave a total of 2 years of my life
and when I decide to give it to someone else,
not a trace left of you but the blood
that came from your razor while you were gone.
Memories of us peeling from the back of my brain,
conversations rusted over,
you came back and I was so relieved
that I said nothing about the thin red lines that littered your arms
Then I found out you'd only come back
to get that pack of cigarettes I owed you.
I still wonder what goes through your mind
when you think about me, now.
What's left of your heart is consumed
with the hatred you feel for my boyfriend,
and that shouldn't erode my thoughts
as much as it does
but in the end nothing is left but hurt,
raw and naked and painful.
That's the thing about pain, you see-
it demands to be felt,
but without you I feel strangely free,
like I could spread my snapped wings and fly
through a sky dotted with shining promises
and the haze of a moon that
makes my yellowed teeth and tattered clothing glow
and I don't know if that excites me
or scares the hell out of me,
Feat. TFIOS, by John Green. "That's the thing about pain; it demands to be felt."