Rose, Prose, Poetry

Rage

Burn. Burn. BURN.

Erase yourself. Turn into ash. Perish.

Do it, before I send you to Hell myself.

I'm fucking sick of being the holy one,

So let me be the angel of judgment just this once.

You have to die. You have to.

So die. Die. Die and lock yourself in a coffin.

I can't bear to see your body, that soft, protected vessel,

Because you're evidence of the mercy I have in me,

And I hate that you stole the better parts of me.

I can't. I can't. I fucking CAN'T.

I'll tear you to shreds. I'll murder your family.

I hate the remnants of good I see in those eyes of yours,

Hazel irises warm like the summer days we used to share,

So I need you to bleed, blood a brutal symbol of your betrayal.

You can't exist. Not with me.

Not in any timeline of ours. I won't let it happen.

And if it does, I'll make your life as painful as death,

Letting you taste the silver of my scythe every time,

So that you will never take advantage of my heart ever again.

I hate you. I HATE YOU. YOU BASTARD.

You mean something to me now, and it makes me sick.

So I'll erase you. Burn every photo and trace and memory.

And I don't care if it bruises or breaks me in the process

Because I can't stand the parts of you left in me, so I'll rip them out.

Bleed. Suffer. Break.

Cry out. Reach out with bloodied hands in desperation.

I'll cause your torment and abandon you in the ditch,

Wounding you so your scars are worse than the ones you left in me.

And what sucks is no suffering of yours will make me feel better.