Maybe I'm clingy, but are those labels really fair?
I could tear out my hair and slit my wrists but I'm thinking,
that wouldn't change any of this.
It's depressing indeed to talk once a week,
and to hate what I have,
and know what I need.
When you say you love me,
is that really true?
Or are they just words,
they're affecting me too.
I'd trade anything to know why I'm alone,
caught up in the crossfire of my heart,
wondering why the fuck I still text when I know I probably won't get a response.
I love you,
it's simple and true.
But I ask,
what about you?
YOU ARE READING
Last Night
PoesiaDark poem collection from the span of a few years, slowly editing the early ones. The later ones are pretty good. Don't be afraid to give feedback. Please read, vote, and comment!
