The words are spilling from my fingers as tears

As I fight off the brokenness of this horrible love and

I’m just whispering a silent plea for desperate comfort so that

Maybe someone will see that I don’t need anything saying that my misery was amazing.

I just need one small thing to get me through the day (I’ve had so many of those small things but everyone always leaves)

And they leave me here to fend for myself so that I can just fight off the demons

That threaten to consume me (they came so close in the shower this morning, with my razor just sitting there)

So now I’ve got just another scar on my thigh that screams ‘hypocrite! hypocrite!’

I can’t stand to look at it (cover it up with innocent jeans, anything but wristbands, anything)

If my wristbands made the return of the century she would find out

(Know the signs so well, darling, you missed them on the first child)

And if this isn’t pain

Then I’m fucking scared to death of what really is.