What is left?
When you are no longer sure who you are.
When you don't quite recognize that face staring back in the mirror.
You know there is something wrong when every thought of the future sends you down a dark road.
(numb it best you can) seems to be the best answer.

Live in the moment. They say.
And I did.
And now I am running out of time.
Now I no longer have the luxury of living day to day.
Because what if someday I wake up and truly have no purpose?
What if I just become another face beaten down?
What if the one person who is supposed to matter no longer becomes enough?

He asks me why I cry at night.
When there is nothing left to distract the mind.
I tell him it's nothing.
And he does his best to make me laugh.

I was blind.  
I softly traced an outline on my heart as we came to know each other, trusting soft pencil lead to be generous enough to leave a mark.
I unknowingly traced that outline into a dotted line with one of those permanent sharpies, the kind that's impossible to wash out once it touches anything.
Then I gave you a knife, told you exactly where to cut, and opened my eyes
Just as
You
Cut deep.
right along the dotted line. I gave you all the tools, showed you exactly what to do, and you succeeded.

you may have come out clean,
But I am left bloodied and ragged edged.
And I have no one to blame but myself.

If we seem to be drugs for each other,
I think it's high time I sign up for rehab.
It's like we exist within a bedside lamp,
On when sleepless nights ensue conversations of the heart,
But off when daybreak sews that mask yet again to our skin.

Yet.
You disapprove very highly of drugs,
And I fear that while you have nothing but the best intentions,
I just might be the chemical that slowly kills you from the inside out.

I'll ask you to meet me by the riverside,
Perhaps in a certain park, next to a certain knotted oak.
I'll make you promise not to say a single word,
During or after my pretentious speech,
Explaining the thoughts you so often pried for,
Of why I was so difficult to love,
And why I was never able accept your affections.
I'll wait for you by a certain knotted oak,
Closing my eyes,
Carried in the luke warm breeze,
Calling to memory the countless nights that I became angry with you,
As you would not leave my mind,
And every wrong mistake of mine,
Became a wave, pulling me under the tide.