The pain would split me in two if I let it. If I gave it access to my insides. Split me right open. Turn me inside out. Leave me no safe place to hide. I can feel it coming in around me. Closing in on me. I can feel it surrounding everything. When it feels hard to breath. When you turn the music up a little more loudly. All I know is suffering. I don’t want this suffering. All I know is suffering. Not this time. I won’t let you in. I won’t let you win. I don’t want to grieve anymore. I’m so tired of it. My body has dropped down on the floor, as I sit and write this. My body isn’t with me anymore.

small town

My city is plagued with guilt. For all the souls it’s hollowed out and all the children it’s seen grow into sick adults. And all of the people who are bored. So damn bored. Bored out of their minds (they’re out of their minds). They’ll ingest every and any drug known to mankind. Just to FEEL. Oh they’re starving for something real. But keep feeding on artificial. And my city sees it. Sees it every day. And sleeps with it every night. Knowing it will never change. This is the town where every body stays the same. 


The beast who feasted on me.

I can never get away from you, can I?

I never really got away.

All that running and I still ended up back in the same place.


Still dreaming of your face.

I never thought of you as the monster you were.

Never allowed myself to feel the hurt.

It was too much to bear–

what you did to me was too much to bear.

I would’ve crumbled into pieces.

I would have become nothing. I already felt like nothing.

“He was just lost”, that’s how I explain you to people.

What a fucking joke.

All the abuse, and all the lies, and I still lied for YOU.

Maybe it was for me. Who knows. That’s the thing with abuse,

you get so confused.

And it still haunts me.

At night.

In my dreams.

You come alive.

It all leads back to you

My monster.

My truth.


I love you. I’m scared you’re going to die. And I’m scared that I’ll never say this to you before you do. I worry about being too dramatic. How pathetic is that? I worry more about being over dramatic— while you remain killing yourself every day. Playing Russian roulette with a crack pipe. Which line will be lethal? Which relapse will be the last time?