Dead Pieces of The Puzzle That Is MeMature

I could die.

And you'd be fine.

Suffer no more guilt,

Than anyone else.

I could cry.

And you could long to hold me, yes.

But like any other friend, who was a complete fucked up mess.

Aren't you the best?

I could never speak to you again.

And you would let it be the end.

I'm not worth chasing after,

I hardly even matter.

I could push you completely away,

Say everything you never knew you dread to hear,

I know it, I know every word, my dear.

It sits, and festers, in my mind, a way to escape this hellish period of time.

I could believe every little thing you say,

But I'm not as naive,

As I was, yesterday.

And yet, it still hurts when what you say blooms into the lies that they are.

I could scream at you.

Yell all of the things I hold in.

Shout these, angry, but yet, muster up a grin.

I am walking, talking, living sin.

I could take a razor, and cut my skin.

Let out all of these fucking feelings, 

From within.

And still somewhat live.

I could make your life, a living hell.

But despite what you say, or do, 

I can only hate myself,

And not you.  Not you.

Love you.  Hate you.  But. . . not betray you.

Despite that's what you did to me.

Leave me alone.  Leave me be.

Let me break down, piece, by piece,

And fix myself, wipe away my tears, and grieve,

And mourn, for that now dead piece,

Of me.

The End

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