I go walking in the rain to hide my tears, Quite the cliche, but still, Amongst the hot fears and chill, It’s the only way I stay standing, Without understanding Why.
Hate the cold, love the thrills, so I embrace the pills. Sweet lies as they laugh, ‘Though for a second I feel well, It’s false promises by half, Only bringing darker hell.
I crawl into cracks, Hiding from the doubt, But I’m so fucking lost, Am I crawling in or out?
Trembling, I tremble more.
Parts of space not seen before. Stuck on the event horizon in my heart, An endless fall into a deep black hole, Major Tom, I’ve lost control. I’m a total mess. I ache more, I cry more. I become less.
As you no longer stand Where you always stood, This emptiness inside me is so Poorly understood. One hundred million butterflies Together flapped their wings The moment you departed. A coiencedntal thing? That did far More than leave me broken hearted, Now it’s a massive tidalwave your Butterflies have started. As it looms, large above my shores, I’m left without a life-boat, All I have are wooden oars. And although it means that I would drown, If you need them, They are yours.
I bear the scars of your forty-fives,
You tried your best but I’m still alive.
You used two pistols and magazines,
Shot my heart and destroyed my dreams,
But a heart still works if it still cries,
And I cry.
I’m full of holes from your forty-fives, You couldn’t have missed me if you tried, But planned demise isn’t what it seems, Because I survived all your plots and schemes, And a thing’s alive if it still bleeds, And I bleed.
Now I’m immune to your forty-fives, And when you shoot me, I will still survive. The slugs are out and the wounds are clean, So go find better guns, if you’re still keen, Cos a girl’s alive if she can dream, And I dream.
Some days I don’t know that you exist, On others, I don’t even really care. Some days I want to slit my wrists, ‘Tho I fear I’ll find but emptiness there. On so many other days I’m simply lost inside my brain, At least the parts that still remain. And if you cut me all apart, You’ll find emptiness and pain, no sign of a heart.
But some days
I cannot unremember,
For the sun becomes an ember
When compared to you.
All that will exist
Are the parts of you I’ve kissed,
So at least I will have all of you.
Did I learn to hate myself
With such immaculate perfection?
Self taught and unaware,
Still I excell, I succeed,
Seemingly such a strange sensation,
For I fail flawlessly amongst
Soulmates and lovers and BAEs til the end. They come and they go, So I guess they pretend. They all seem to break When they should try to bend. If you ask me the truth, All I want is a friend. My heart seems to ache, It won’t bend, it will break, Because all that I want is a friend.
Where do the pieces of a broken heart go
If they’re too fragile to stitch, or you don’t know how to sew?
Are they put back together with some mystical glue,
Or is there somewhere you can go, to purchase one that’s new?
One thing’s for certain, it takes forever in time, Fresh hearts are in demand, judging by the waiting line. Installing a new heart must be hard, I’ve no doubt, But I’m stuck at the part where your insides are your out.
This isn’t really new though, it’s not my first time ’round,
First-timers wait the longest, due to covering fresh ground.
I always ask for Adamantium, for a heart that cannot break,
But they keep giving me a glass one, and no choice but to take.
I never see who does it all, maybe it’s Santa Claus.
If he’s not received my letter yet,
I’d like to add this clause:
“Dear Santa, let’s just skip right to the end,
You can forgo all the material gifts,
If you’ll hurry up and mend
So this is what ‘forever’ looks like From the other side. A lot like broken promises And echoes of goodbye. Like everything you never got But always thought you’d get. Like each forgotten lonely grave Of every childhood pet. The only thing that’s certain is, It looks a lot like loneliness.
I thought I’d upgrade my depression,
See how it’s looking in 4K.
Ultra High Definition is the new norm now,
At least that’s what they say.
So I tried my tears in Ultra High,
Unsurprised to see,
The resolutions that I cry,
Are way past UHD.
There are plenty of moments
Of heartache I admit,
Some hurt more than others,
And those hurt quite a bit.
But nothing cut me open
As surely and as swift,
As when you walked up
And handed back all of my gifts.
The ones that had meaning,
Given over years.
But you just dumped them in my hands,
Ignoring all my tears.
I confess not knowing what to say,
Never having felt that way.
You walked away, left me to hold
Rejected pieces of my soul.
The meadowlark laughed.
Her singular propensity for disregarding
Guilt and sorrow
Made me think of you.
Everyday is such a perfect day
To be down.
Especially days when you’re around.
I try to tolerate such intolerable intolerance,
Given the chance. The circumstance.
It’s not the end
Of the world,
But I still fall
For the straight girl.
Such are the platitudes intended to make it easier to murder my companion of twelve years. My best and only friend. The most gentle and pure soul I have ever encountered, and quite probably the only reason I’m still alive.
When he’s gone…I can’t begin to imagine..
Now I must hold him in my lap while he is murdered.
MURDERED! despite knowing it will end his suffering and it must be done.
I promised myself I wouldn’t cry.
I haven’t done anything else.
Each time you pass me in the hall
I find new depths to fall into,
When all I ever wanted was
Some kind of smile from you.
One meant just for me,
Have your eyes focus and see
Me standing there,
Red faced and feeling small.
My life, the eponymous derailing train,
Out of control, and I’m feeling the same.
At least the wreck will be magnificent.
Read the news, see how it went,
My life in print, splashed across a page.
So unremarkable for someone my age,
She lived, she died, is what it will read.
The in-between is what I need.
So much time and room to grow,
I hope I do, before I go.
Sits uneasily, bus seat perfunctory.
A lump of hard plastic.
Stares through the once was window, now just a diary of scratches and rage.
Watches uncertain possibilities of herself huddling around trash-can fires, scrounging through back alleys behind steaming food stores.
Standing staring back with vacant yet accusing eyes.
Sees herself in the cracks. The could have been. Might have been. Almost was. Hot and heavy tears, Almost unfallen, Often unnoticed. Always unsure. Perhaps they fall for all the could-have-beens. Perhaps they fall because I’m uncertain on which side of the glass I belong. Feels lucky.
Hates the burden of this unwanted blame.
Unresolved guilt builds into anger.
Resents your unspoken accusations.
Sick with self-doubt about how true they may actually be.
Hates these imagined obligations of grief, twisted and embedded in my head.
All these not-so-very-unlikely possible, potential versions of me.
I hate them.
I hate you.
I hate myself.
I hate society, for making me feel as though I should constantly feel lucky.
Lucky to be as damaged and fucked up and empty as I really am.
Oh, so lucky.
Ah, what bitter tears are these? That carve like acid, tracks of sorrow ‘pon my face for all to see. Witness in the way I walk, The lack of my self-worth. Hear me speak with vitriol, Bitterness that takes its toll, On you, on me.