I love to hate you.
What used to be love and understanding
have turned into pity and indifference.
I used to love the way you would touch my face and
tell me that I was the most beautiful thing about your life.
Now when you touch my hand to hold
I slither away.
It's not your fault.
You've done nothing wrong.
It's my mind that says I'm not good enough.
That I'm not really the person you feel in love with.
In my heart I know it's wrong to torture you like this,
but my mind can't get enough of the sickness
that I spread from my lips and fingertips.
I want to tell you to run and never look back
at the crumbling marble statue that your heart called home.
My mind oozes with the cure for love,
the one they call
depression.
