Unlatched

When you'd gotten up to close the door like I had asked,

you forgot to lock it (like I did out of habit in the past).

The serpents of my life slithered in with ease due to the unlatched door

and entered my life once again to destroy my very core.

They entered through my sockets, and made me feel insane.

They filled my pockets with long-lasting pain.

The only thing left on my clothes were blood stains

from me cutting deep; trying to release the curse of mental illness.

Knowing that those around probably couldn't feel this.

The window was slightly ajar, too.

It allowed even more hurt to flow through.

Fuck, this hurts.

As you slept silently next to me,

the cold space in which I lay intensified my wish to be free.

Free from this coma of hurt,

free from feeling,

free from life,

and my fixation on the only way out, death, had never been so strong.

I toss and turn next to you, wondering where I went wrong.

You couldn't help me, no one could cure the emotional ailments on my long list.

I felt the only escape was through the gashes on my wrists.

The blood dripped,

the indie CD then skipped,

which cause you to wake up and screamed at the sight of my cuts.

But, honey, I had to turn my emotional scares into new, physical ones.

They say seeing is believing, and you'd never see the serpents slithering in through the unlatched door.

So the scars pile up more and more.

Believe me, God, PLEASE! Believe me. I need you to understand my pain.

I'm fucking begging you babe,

just listen and look at the hurt that I feel.

I just want to be free.

So maybe next time you'll shut the windows and lock the doors for me.