He was always too good to me,
I never understood
why he let me take all,
that I possibly could.
so in my sleep and when I wake,
my heavy heart still tends to ache.
For him and me and all I feel,
for worlds we contrived,
convinced they were real .
Now in sorrow and insight,
sickness and pain,
sleep or insomnia,
with guilt and with shame:
I admit to defeat and begin my descent,
both feet in the air and face on cement,
All the damage is done now- how I'm alone but I'm free-
how no one compares,
He was too good to me.

You don't love
me
for who I
am,
but for the
person
I pretend to
be.

you don't exist when
my eyes are open
you don't exist when
my blood's not poisoned
when my soul's at peace
when my gut is full
and when I'm in company

So you exist most of the time
dear muse

but that handle was made for his hand
hand - handle
handle - hand

the fingers would close
around it to never let go
It had to have flesh around it
at all times
But the blade...
the blade was still naked. He couldn't let
the blade naked
It wasn't fair

"So that's why you stabbed your
mommy then?" the psychiatrist asked him.

"Yes," he said.

"The knife is more important
to you than mommy?"

"The knife listens. Mommy doesn't."