last night i managed to write something in the book you bought me
your name has never looked so pretty

on my wrist and inner thigh
it evoked feelings i thought i had lost

fresh blood trickled down to the floor
i wondered if you still knew my name

i promised myself i wouldn't do this again
or remembered the colour of my eyes

between my heart and my brain, one betrayed me
and how shiny they were when you left

this is the last time i'm ever picking up an pen and paper
the lies i tell myself at 3am when i can't seem to fall asleep

people call you "strong" just so they can use you as a shoulder to cry on, they expect you to never break, to be strong for THEM

and that is a special kind of evil; they expect you to give up pieces of yourself to build them up when they're crumbling

as if you are destined to be a monument to human fragility; they are baffled when you turn cold and dark as a pile of stone

but your true destiny is that of a volcano; lying dormant, cold and lifeless for millennia - a day will come when you release all you are

all your ever was and all you ever will be; they will write poems and songs about the day you revealed your strength to be your weakness

YOU MADE ME THIS WAY
YOU MADE ME THIS WAY
YOU MADE ME THIS WAY

like thunder you roar YOU MADE ME THIS WAY

you drown out all their moaning and sniffles and brush them off your shoulder for good; "but you are so cold" they will say,

YOU MADE ME THIS WAY

you, you made me this way

i know you
i have seen you
the real you
the one you hide
from everyone
the poetry in your notebook
that is the real you
and my dear
you are beautiful

i once loved a girl. memories

i am a writer
perhaps
because
i am not a talker

suicide note:
to the one that left

*in you i lost my reason to live