You ask me “what’s wrong”
and I am really trying to stay strong.
But I sit around all day long
with a tornado for a mind and crypt as a bed,
with demons ripping me into pieces within my head,
and the only thing I want is to be dead.
Yes, when I touch the cool air
there is cold, but really no feelings there.
And I’ve noticed that the way I love remains unfair:
push push away,
but my soul begs you to stay.
And through these tears I admit I am afraid
because throughout the years
that I have been here
my purpose has been blurry and a little unclear.
My body rocks as my heart stops,
Then the numbness of death fills my chest
like the same feeling of what little love I have left,
the little bit of hope which makes me obsessed.
I must go.
So I drag my body, slow.
Slowly my skin scabs and bruises
and I’m content with all the blood my body loses.
I know, my words don’t seem to make much sense,
but the feeling in my body is so intense.
I’m sorry for not being okay
and I’m sorry if my love is just in your way.
And I am sorry that there’s never enough or way too much for me to say.