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Description
I wonder if it is possible to love without another on the receiving end,
To want and not know who it is driving me mad,
Whispering endearments to thin air,
Hissing at the wall,
Yelling at ghosts,
To love alone.

I wonder if it's the only way to feel safe,
Obviously I know the level of damage I can do,
Who better to hurt me then myself?

Somehow it's more enjoyable,
To bleed by my hand,
To burn from my skin's impact,
To bruise by my own force,
Who better to hate me then me?

It's not a self love, I already loath,
But with it constantly seeping through my pores,
I need something good to give,
Want to care about anyone who won't retaliate,
I'm desperate for balance.

Why bother, however?
I'm already insane as it is,
My wants have not been mirrored as far as I'm aware,
Increasingly, I let go of normalcy,
One by one, I cut the strings of reality,
No one is here to see me slip.

Day by day, it's tempting to get it over with,
To simply grab all the strings and yank them swiftly,
Let the strands cut through my skin,
Allow my blood to seep and stain the fabric,
To let all the should be crash and shatter over my body.

I will pluck the shards out, piece by piece,
Neatly drop them into a bag; in order,
Patiently do the ritual, slow and steady,
Seal the bag and set it aflame,
Watch the fire dwindle, flicker and die,
Take the ashes and soak them before leaving it to dry.

Dust, just dust, dust, dust,
It's all that will be left of who I should be,
How I am perceived,
How elating would that be?
To sit atop my rock, watching the wind bend the land,
Laughing for the first time, free of the mess I was before.

The laughter has already arrived,
It vibrates the strings that hold me still,
Fissures along the wall of my chest,
Forces my skin to flake,
I'm burning away, without the flames,
And I wonder sometimes, if I'm already too late.

Description
I wonder if it is possible to love without another on the receiving end,
To want and not know who it is driving me mad,
Whispering endearments to thin air,
Hissing at the wall,
Yelling at ghosts,
To love alone.

I wonder if it's the only way to feel safe,
Obviously I know the level of damage I can do,
Who better to hurt me then myself?

Somehow it's more enjoyable,
To bleed by my hand,
To burn from my skin's impact,
To bruise by my own force,
Who better to hate me then me?

It's not a self love, I already loath,
But with it constantly seeping through my pores,
I need something good to give,
Want to care about anyone who won't retaliate,
I'm desperate for balance.

Why bother, however?
I'm already insane as it is,
My wants have not been mirrored as far as I'm aware,
Increasingly, I let go of normalcy,
One by one, I cut the strings of reality,
No one is here to see me slip.

Day by day, it's tempting to get it over with,
To simply grab all the strings and yank them swiftly,
Let the strands cut through my skin,
Allow my blood to seep and stain the fabric,
To let all the should be crash and shatter over my body.

I will pluck the shards out, piece by piece,
Neatly drop them into a bag; in order,
Patiently do the ritual, slow and steady,
Seal the bag and set it aflame,
Watch the fire dwindle, flicker and die,
Take the ashes and soak them before leaving it to dry.

Dust, just dust, dust, dust,
It's all that will be left of who I should be,
How I am perceived,
How elating would that be?
To sit atop my rock, watching the wind bend the land,
Laughing for the first time, free of the mess I was before.

The laughter has already arrived,
It vibrates the strings that hold me still,
Fissures along the wall of my chest,
Forces my skin to flake,
I'm burning away, without the flames,
And I wonder sometimes, if I'm already too late.