The End.

To feel the blood on my tongue,
The way the skin peels from my lips,

Ripped away from me like the breath from my lungs

It makes me weary, and I cry,

not from my eyes or from my heart,

But from my fingertips

I leave behind a trail of sand from the shattered hours of time that is lost,

And it melts into patterns onto the forgotten page of life,

Molten with desire to be known and sort after,

Like the singular red thread that weaved its way around our little fingers,

Woven together in a neat bow to create a promise,

But the sharp blade you lent me has since been buried in my back,

It's sole purpose to carve out my spine,

To hollow out the space where my skeleton once stood strong,

That way there would finally be room for the lies you fed me,

You stuffed my skin like a nice feather pillow full of dreams,

Replacing the parts of me that weren't ideal,

Until all that was left was to leave what remained to rot and wither away,

Until the worms made a home out of my flesh,

And there was nothing left but the stench of decay,

It, too, lingered in the air along with my final words,

A tiny whisper that faded just out of reach of your ear,

A parting thought, if you will.

At what point was I, or would I ever be enough?

And what a shame that my sincere plead for affection was met with nothing more than the echo of my own sorrows,

In an empty room we once shared.