Friday, 6 January 2012

041; It's really bursting at the seams.

I'll take a rusty nail and scratch your initials on my arm.

I'm falling apart and you're not here to hold me together, though you've told me you're constantly afraid I'll hurt myself, that you'll wake up one day and I'll be dead, and if you'd just lay with me and whisper that in my ear for the rest of my life, I would probably be content, but you're not here and I'm not there, and the bottle's only an arm's length away, the knife in my pocket, the pills in my bag, and it's so easy to just forget for a while; forget the fear, the anxiety, the emotions, the highs and lows, the fall and rise (if only it was the fall and rise of your chest), and my fingers are growing numb, the wine blacks my lips while the smoke blacks my insides, wash away my sins, wash away my sorrows, and tomorrow might be better though I know it won't be, it never is, and I know I'm not doing myself any favours, only making it worse, only making it harder, but I don't want to listen, because this is easy, cutyourselftakethepillsdrinkandrepeat and oh, will you still be here to be the one to save me from myself?

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