I was taught
Even as a little girl
That giving is what we called "loving"
So I grew up
Loving and loving
And even though there was
Nothing left of me
For me  
Even though
All I could give
Was shattered pieces of me
A crumbling heart
A black and stormy soul
I gave
And still called it love
Never mind if it was toxic
Never mind if it was the brokenness
I was taught
Even as a little girl
That giving is what we called "loving"
So I grew up
Losing myself

Suicidal thoughts are poetic
The slitting of wrists
Ropes tied around your neck
The need to put that one foot forward
Into the pit that ends everything;
Hopes, dreams, wishes and nightmares combined

Suicidal thoughts are poetic
The feeling of drowning
A knife pierced to your heart
The want to simply put that one foot forward
To the center of the road that starts everything;
Sorrow, regret and sympathy combined

Suicidal thoughts are poetic
The endless hallucinations and insomnia
Thinking of what would happen if you died
The uncontrollable yearning to simply put that one foot forward;
To the darkness of closed eyes that makes everything;
Problems, unanswered questions and contentment combined

Suicidal thoughts are so poetic
That it comes to a point
That all of it
Suddenly and inconspicuously
Becomes true

we were good at something

we were good at breaking each other
we had the same hobby
of ripping
tearing
getting
each others pieces
bit by bit
every part
we killed each other
through words
or austere and conspicuous
acts of ignoring
and that kept us together
because even if we kept ourselves  
broken and unfixed
we gladly took the misconception
of staying together
and call it
love.