You fall out of love,
As easily as you fall off of a cliff ledge,
Down into darkness,
Self-destructive tendencies tangled around you,
Like a blood-coloured spiderweb.
Stitches raise ridges on empty veins,
Hell, a perfect form of torture,
Is to keep you alive when you'd rather be dead.
So many ways to cover up the scars,
So many lies you could tell to loved ones,
If you had any ones worth loving.
Fade into the background,
But stand out in silent resilience.
You kill yourself, cut into each wrist,
Because to die at the hands of anyone else,
Would be an insult.