And when i saw you again,
my blood ran cold,
and I haven’t felt warmth since.

Reality has become kind of fragmented,
cracking and cutting my flesh,
leaving only darkness.
I don’t know how to get back,
I don’t even know if i want to

You said my pain was so poetic,
And I was cutting myself to the bone,
Squeezing the blood on the pages so you could hear me,
Nothing about my suffering is poetic,
Screaming into my sheets and trying to claw memories out of my chest,
Burning myself and forcing me to remember things I’d rather forget,
Breaking down crying and begging to be laid to rest,
You called me a beautiful tragedy,
But I believe you can only have beauty,
Or tragedy,
And I am the latter.

I have been writing for years,
and recently I’ve been reading all my old poems,
and all I’ve realised,
is that nothing has changed.
Nothing ever will.

I don't want to be me anymore,
But I don't want to be anything.

I don't know what I'm doing anymore

I don't think I can rebuild myself again
Not with tearing everything down,
And still the cracks will scream and shout
"I am still here"

I just want my skin to feel like mine again