A suicide letter with your name on every line.
Love was a one way street and I was just trying to get by.
I had once been beautiful, I had once been strong,
But now I am the tempest that ripped the door from your hinges,
And I am destructive to everything inside.
I've tried to forget the way you cut your hair and the way you cut your meat,
But the cuts on my arm are just a reminder that
You were good with everything that involved a knife.

It's true what they say about becoming like your surroundings,
Because I've carved your name into my rib cage with consonants like a blade,
But you went behind my work and sliced deeper with every vowel.
I think it was my heart dying the day we left blood in your sheets;
I didn't know letting you inside of me meant being haunted by
Everything that remains and never left when you did.
Every pill on my tongue tastes like your mouth on my thighs.
The fire you left beneath my skin holds crimson relief and secret sin.

I thought the meaning of lust was to exclude love from the mix,
But you confused the two and now
I'm not so sure what love means.
I've hit rock bottom in the form of an avalanche
And the weight is far worse than the weight of you on top.
These demons are eating me alive and I see them in my dreams,
But my dreams are of your smile and I think
The good dreams are worse than the bad.

I find the irony in that.
I begged for your presence once in my uncertain attempt to survive.
You said some things you just cannot control, like why these bad things have happened.
Were you talking about yourself?
You said I had to be careful; "you never know when you will die."
I am aware now that, that was your greatest lie.
I died by your hand the day your poison left your lips.
My fight against death was your fight for life and
Every sting from your hips against mine nailed me further to
My own tombstone.

No one tells you that the monsters under your bed would
Show their face when you looked into the mirror.
The bags under my eyes look quite like the bags you left of
Bad memories and bad habits (they are all I have left).
You must understand that the screams from the roof tops could
End with a crack of my bones, and
You are to blame for the nights I cannot stop drowning from
The thoughts in my head.

If love was suicide you had as much life as spring and
I never made it through the chill of winter.
I've been taking medicine for the pounding in my head and now it suddenly makes sense.
My mind is sicker than I thought.
We have always only been human and I can only bend my heart so far;
But you needed me to be broken.
I cannot understand why you had to feel my break.
The death seeping through your pores brings out the colors in your eyes.
If needing you is suicide I know I'm going to die.

There is more to be said about the way it burns on my skin
Long after your hand has moved to another inch of my body.
The walls were filled with lies and I think your mouth wrote them itself,
At least they sound quite familiar and I wish I could say
"I feel safe."
The bathroom floor is covered with my blood, sweat, and tears
And I swear if you didn't know I loved you then, at least
I know you never loved me now.

I can't even love myself.
I've been told strangers cannot be trusted and I think that's when I became afraid of the mirror.
Being touched by you was like being awake after sleeping too long.
My heart was confused and disoriented,
But my hands never forgot what to do.
Loving you was the best pain I have ever felt.
Everything you are made of hurts but I love it, I still love it, I still love you.
This self inflicting torture has become my addicting sadness
And I know that's because it is as
Close to your heart as my trembling hands will ever reach.


If there was a stage in between life and death I think
I entered it the day your words ****** the life from me.

You walk through the doors of the library and everything is in it's familiar place on every dust covered shelf. Somehow the feeling of it's untouched surfaces intrigue you (probably because you envy the hidden finger prints).

You open the first book and it breathes a hard nastolgia into your face. The sound of the porch swing is the first thing you hear, and the library is transformed into a summer's night. You feel the rush of your lover's touch and you wonder how it is possible to ever move on from that night and from the sounds of "I love you," in your ear.

The next book you pick up has a strong spine and thick pages. Everyone knows this must mean it lacks a good story but you wonder why that is so. Simply because it has been untouched? You long to be the unbent book on that splintered shelf with no crumbled pages or folded corners of someone's favorite things.

You refused to open the next book you saw, and yes, you judged it by the cover.  I suppose he judged you by the cover, and you could feel the weight of "you're not what I thought you were." It lives over your shoulders like an angry cloud and you hope to God there is a window to bring sunshine into this room.

Looking down the row of books you see one out of place, different from the rest.  With a gentle hand you pick it up and feel it's weak pages between your fingers stained with tears. You know that this book has been in the possession of many and even has a few tears the further into it you read. You wonder if this is how you appear. (fragile and weak) or if maybe the bold print you see on every page speaks louder than the condition each corner is in.

The next book you find is a childhood memory, and it was always one you'd love to relive.
You missed the sound of your father's voice, but the memory was as good as the father who knew how to leave. The baggage may have been heavier than his own suitcases, but you forget that all because you were back at your eighth birthday party, and the smile he had was one you'd never forget.

You close this book lightly and grab the one directly behind it. It's a fairytale, and the exact way you always imagined your life to be. Your eyes scan every page quickly but as you near the end you read that walks in the park are not always perfect in fact they can often be filled with tears and the little girl in a dress is broken inside scratching her story into every page of this fictional disillusion.

The last book you grab is one that shouldn't have intrigued you. You sit on the only piece of furniture, besides the dusty shelves; a wooden chair infront of a fireplace. The story displays you and him, and the future you wish you had.
The book starts out at a wedding, but it isn't yours. In fact, the only thing sentemental about it is the way he squeezed your hand when they said their vows.  You scream to make the story stop, but your eyes never stray.  The book ends with you alone. Ironic, isn't it? Because you were always alone, even when he was yours and everything felt complete. The wooden chair breaks as you move to burn the book, and the flames help bring the story to life and every lie fills the walls. The library becomes a labrinth that will never release you.

The chair is a mirror to your heart.

You are alone with the writing on the walls and that is all that is left of you.