Words come to me slowly.

They come in fragments;

Ideas,

Never whole.

I have dreams;

But no future.

I have thoughts;

But no visions.

My mind is empty of determination.

When I think,

I get anxious.

My chest is tight

It's hard to breath.

The room spins.

Those hateful thoughts come back and,

I get angry.

I blame people.

I hate myself,

and I search for purpose.

She became my purpose.

To make her love me,

Admire me,

Adore me.

Her skin was a canvas for my lips.

Her laugh were the symphonies I wrote.

I thought it was love.

I thought our moments,

With Bowie and Banksy

Spiriling from our fingers,

Were magic.

I thought when she took me by the mouth,

That I was hers and she was mine.

But she lied;

She enchanted me.

Her gentle noises were deception.

Her romantic force was destruction.

She was talented in blinding me.

She tortured me,

and I was tortured.

She told me it was how poetic I was.

That I was cursed with a gift of pain.

She tore me from my life,

My dreams, my thoughts,

She filled me with herself;

And I was hers.