Why do people leave me?

Why do love only give birth to be slaughtered by your hands?

I am so afraid.

You won’t listen. 

You won’t tell me the words I want to hear.

I bring myself into the fires as I scream and smoke fills my lungs and the fire licks my body angrily - the same way your hands are all over me. I scream. Nightmares. 

Daymares. 

Reality.

I wish I didn’t end up like this all the time

I have a tortured soul, and one day, Jung and Nietzsche told me, I will too,  become the torturer

But ******

I fight, and I fight it so hard

I fight so hard to not hurt others

It’s all I ever do

I fight, and
I fight but I never seem to win

I had given in, accepted my fate

Why did you have to tear down

all
I
built

?

Maybe this all I really am;

a punching bag;

dust;

pulp;


Please, one time.
Help me up before you throw me out the window.

Next time, don’t let them get so close.

Don’t let them 

Them

and

me,

against the world. 

I should know better.

I sink. 

No metaphors.
No similes, please.
No poems. Please.

Just empty words after all.
Yes, beautiful. 
But

empty.

...

Take it all away.
Please.

Leave your knives,
leave your swords,
leave your guns.
Stop killing me.

Stop.

Please, stop me before I dive into the dark, freezing ocean - 

there is nowhere for me in this world.

So, to sleep. 

Perchance to dream… 

and all of that.

Let’s be true.
I don’t really know Hamlet’s soliloquy. 

But **** Shakespeare. He doesn’t know how hard it is. 

Ophelia didn’t drown herself so easily - I don’t sink so easily, but I still do - and every night I dream, I go away. 

Forever.

I’m not alone. 

I tell lies.

Okay, so maybe I’m not okay. 

But when will I ([n]ever) be?

I am born with this heritage.
With this scarred soul.
And William, Friedrich, Carl… 

- well, this is just another story of loneliness and giving up.
The crazy bunch.

Maybe, this is the last straw. 

Maybe, I’ll finally go crazy. 

The inevitable will happen. 

The lonely will be left - completely alone.

The self-destructing fool,
finally, self-destructing oneself. 

It’s so difficult to climb this ladder. 


…

I’ll just go down.

The water is cold.


**May 29th 2014

Today
I Dreamed
That I was sitting with her by a small, rectangle pond
And I was talking to her.
And as she cooled, and sweetly, expectantly, almost apologetically, changed the subject,
I loosened my hair, and began to pull from the pond as it began to cloy and foamed
Handfuls, upon handfuls
Of knotted, used hair bands.
From all the times I had sat there before
And talked to her
About you.