You ask why I no longer write,
But how on Earth am I supposed to?
The parts you took from me were the best
that I could do

The day you slowly flew,
from the utter mess of what we were,
from me and my life,
You took what used to be a joyful soul
before the wound
of your manipulative knife,
And you left it here
to rue seeing nothing
but black and blue.

You ask why I no longer write,
But you still miss to understand;
You have taken with you my fragile arms
through your deceitful but compelling charms,

You have taken with you my sensible and thin fingers
With the way your body used to linger,
Millimeters away from mine,
just enough to make it impossible for me to live without.


And you still ask why I no longer write...