It seems these days, I'm always late
Late to wake
Late to go
Late to sleep.
I look back and remember the days I was early.
Early to grow
Early to learn
Early to Love.
I was never on time. Only black and white.
But now I'm late in my love for them.
Words I'd left unspoken weigh down my heart and tear apart emotions until
There's nothing
But a shattered heart
An empty soul
A numbness that I can't shake away.
But it doesn't matter, I'm too late.
Too late to hold her hand
Too late to be theirs
Too late to take back the scars caused my both literal and metaphorical blades.
Too late to fix the vacant look of not having the will to live or the will to end my suffering.
And so I am but an empty book, thrown away by a brilliant yet discouraged author.
And so I am but a marionette, strings cut off and feeling freedom, only to realize I can't do this alone.
I
Can't
Live
Alone.
My mind is a chorus of 'please don't go' and 'you should leave'
But I'm always late.
It's too late for an apology, I don't expect you to forgive me.
It's too late for 'I love you's' because you've already found the one and it's been made painfully clear,
I am late in love,
And
I
Am
Not
The
One.
