Decadence Hackneyed

P: Forgive Me

I know you don't want me to cut,

But the urge is too much.

I have so much built down inside me.

I don't know how to get rid of it.

There's so many things wrong with me,

But so many things that are right.

It balances out.

But a knife,

Just a quick slit,

I'll feel better,

I'll feel so strife.

Physically,

I can take any hit.

Any bite.

And burn.

And cut.

So bruise me up.

Do it,

Because I can take a hit.

But once you touch me emotionally,

I break down.

I melt down.

I cry.

I scream.

I hurl my fist.

My words,

They become a blur.

I hate myself,

Any things about me.

I'm so talented it hurts.

I'm not saying that to be conceded.

But I can't choice.

What I want to 'work'.

I'm hurting.

I know I am.

And I know you want to help me get through it.

But you're another reason.

Why I don't want to.

Because if you do,

Then we'll stay together.

And I don't know where I'll be in the end.

I can tell you one thing though,

I have a plan.

And I can't change things.

I have my mind set.

And no one gets in that way.

I want to work things out.

But I'm afraid.

I'm afraid that it means no doubt.

That we stay together.

Which isn't bad,

But.

I can't really say we can.

Here's the thing,

I love you.

I really do.

I can't say I can't at this point.

But I don't love me.

I never have.

You can't make me.

Just as I can't make you do anything.

And I appreciate who I am.

But I don't love myself.

I'd look up to myself if I wasn't me.

I write,

Day after day.

Night after night.

How to get thought this?

My emotions?

This is how I get through it.

It's not easy,

I never say it would be.

But I can tell you that I'm scared.

I want you.

But I'm afraid things will work out the same as before.

We'll have an amazing time.

But the show will end.

And then we must go our separate ways.

Darling,

I need to know.

How to get you to understand.

I am your teacher,

As well as your boyfriend.

But I can only do so much.

To get you to smile.

I know you don't want to talk about certain things.

But we have to.

And this is a problem.

This is one of the many things wrong.

With me.

-

October 8. 2013: Originally written in 'Clockwork Journal I'. 

This was for Boni, her poor soul, only cared for me. (3.25.19)