When you asked me what I was doing I told you a lie. A lie that I didn't want you to know about until I died. Now I cry. Never knowing I'd see the pain and the tears in your eyes. I'd take it back if I could and Lord knows I tried. Right? Or did I just lie? As I lie in my bed beside the tears that I cried. And cried and cried to the point where they won't dry. Praying for my depression to die so I can live a happier life without being tied to my past which I so desperately try to hide. Confiding to the paper that I wrote on to hide the lies and bury it alive knowing well that it'll try to escape the prison of ink and lines. I lied about the long sleeves and bandaids because I returned to my deadly escapades. All because of a bitch who I fell for because I thought she was the one because she touched my butt. I said because in the last sentence so many times I wouldn't blame you if you I thought I lied. I relapsed. So when I cut I cry. I was doing somewhat "fine" until you came into my life taking the little bit of light I had and turning it into night. What am I even talking about? Struggling to survive day in and day out. My body and mind collide over and over again. And over the course of time I'm drained and messy. I've become deranged and sloppy, not right and grumpy. Confused and angry. Lost weight and ugly. And everything starts to crumble before me. My life is off the stand. It falls like sand slipping through the fingers on a hand. My mind banned from comfort and sanity. All thanks to the lies I've kept inside of me.
