Self-loathing,
Self-hatred,
Guilt,
Pain,
I'll never be a good enough partner,
I'm failing right out of the gate.

I let you down,
I see it in your eyes,
I breached that trust you had in me,
And didnt live up to my own ideals,
A moment of weakness,
A moment of idleness,
Looping in my brain,
**** this tormentable guilt!

You say I get stuck in my own thinking,
Like a bird that's fallen into tar,
But thinking back,
If my brain is the tar,
I need to clean it some dawn.

Please let this storm pass,
Let the thunder die down in my mind
Let the lightning strikes fade,
For all that's holy,
May you forgive my trespasses still,
Let me be the man you said I could be,
And fly free,
Above the ooze and filth.

Thousands of tiny little stars
Hundreds of beating little hearts
Mountain mice can't fight the village lion
But the spark can light a thousand rivers that open the threshold for a billion oceans covered in nothing but shame and disgust.
Here lies a broken body, here falls another opinion ,the grave of a trillion lies

Laying beside
Direction the same
Aligned against
Hands on your stomach
Staring at the black threads
That streak down
Never out of place
I memorize each thread
Questioning if you even
Recognize me
After gazing at the wall for so long
Almost lifeless
But laying alone, myself,
I'd rather be buried.

It kills me knowing
You're away in your head
Not present to feel
The touch of my fingertips
Or the silent breathing
Against skin

I lay in wishing
With each breath
That you'll remember me
Longer than the next morning
I lay in hope
That when you face me
You won't tire of what you see.

I lay in desperation
And in fear
Of losing you
With ourselves sitting,
Watching
These eyes and heart
Fading away
Less than an arm's reach
From the desired dream
Less than an arm's reach
When I'll lose you

And I'll be cast
Into detriment
Soaked in self-loathing
Screaming internally
At my mistakes.

This carving knife
Tears skin
Like plucking threads;
The pain of the mind
Let out
Through physical response,
Immeasurable.
A tear,
A grain of sand,
Time ticks
Present to past.
It’s an awful state
To survive
In such a way;
Not even living,
Just pulling through
On a razor blade
To appease the nightmare—
The shadow;
What an awful presence.