I am tired; I am worn: my eyes falter, and fail, wishing of and seeing only what I’ll never have- a lover: one of with whom I would love with, love things, make love, and care for love. I lust with myself to faceless women with wordless mouths and tear-less eyes. After all things, my heart is well traveled; for, despite not finding love as of yet, it seems as though emotions can be harmed without being brought out to the light. This makes me bitter: my lips let my tongue out, to speak vile things to innocent and unsuspecting family members and odd and awkward questions to friends- the few of whom remain. I think and consider seriously death now more and more, often weighing my sorrow against the distraught tatters of my act: thinking of my parents, and now moved away siblings- what would my suicide do to them; how selfish would that be for my to take my own God given life?
Take the sorrow, tinged harkened green,
And take the weary luck too;
For I’d far soon rather go unseen
Into forests and caves with you.
I am sorry. I’m a stupid, broken, fat failure, and can never be loved.