So I want to die,
Slip fifty pills into my throat,
Or treat my beating heart like a bullseye,
For bullets to coat.
And I just want to cry,
Cry out every exhausting tear into what I have wrote.
It would be a lie,
To say that you are not the cause.
What is wiping my tears dry,
Is not your claws,
But my own aching fingers,
Giving me an emotional pause.
It becomes easier not to care,
About the way you crave solitude,
And how the scent of your detergent-soaked clothes permeates my air.
Not developing a bitter attitude,
Is where my frustration lies,
But even the energy for that will be subdued.
I wonder if you can hear my cries,
Thirty some odd miles away from you,
Or is it too painful to humanize,
The sensitivity I have too.
Do not forget that I am real,
Let your love for me re-accrue.