Cracked hands;

Lack of sleep;

Explosive words;

When we met I was an oil painting.

But standing by yourself only results in the most negative counterfeit,

And then can never be unchanged. 

Destroying the beauty I once held myself to, on that windy summer night,

Must be your most cherished accomplishment;

You never cease to drag it out.

I beg of you to get my wishes over with;

Drowning isn't supposed to take three years.

Of course I cannot know,

How you found it in yourself to rip up the one you held for so long

But burning mental photographs is an easy task for you,

So what's the difference?

Because the hauntingly beautiful memories I desperatey grasp onto

Only appear in dreams.

And waking up always seems to ache.

But hear, my darling, is a secret I have told in my mind a thousand times:

It no longer matters what you call my veracities on paper;

I only needed you to read them.

Now you unconsiously see me, whilst being beaten with aspersions

And like the lastly uncaged starling, I finally am free.

So I traced on lines the few things

That still control the quickening of my breath;

A melancholy heart making drum beats in my ears

And left the inscribed leaves to freeze in quiet snow;

To show the creator of a feigned death

That even the worst of us

Can be forgotten.