I think I’m dying from the inside out,
Like the apples you cut with the crunching sound of finality,
Break me open and you’ll find one of two things,
A sickly heart rotten to the core-
Or a mere hollow space
Where my heart should be.
If our eyes had never met,
If we had never spoken to each other in the summer of demise,
If only I did not find reasons to fall in love with you
There’s something satisfyingly despairing about finding solace in mirages,
Like people that take drugs to close their minds from reality.
Where’s the drug I need
That’ll take me away from myself? I’m looking for
A way to stop being me as
The virus of love sets my bones aflame
And controls my mind to focus on the one thing that is you.
In the same way that men sleep with strangers to feel just a little less lonely,
I find comfort in these words I write
As they play the role of friends for me
When all I want to do is scream.