I put the pen to the paper,
bending my head over the desk,
watching the ink bleed
making incoherent words.
Tearing the paper apart
until it was in tiny pieces-
is this what's left of my heart?
The clock ticks, another heartbeat-
I can't seem to form words
that I desire to share.
I stabbed the pen through the paper,
mutilating it,
abusing it.
My world is in ashes.
"It's getting harder to breathe."
I wrote one night.
My sister once woke up.
"Sarah, it's two AM."
She once said.
I couldn't sleep.
I would not sleep.
This blank paper is haunting me.
I scrawl on the walls with my inked pens,
drawing morbid pictures
and watching as the veins in my wrists pulsed
and yearned to bleed.
I'm alone in this fight-
nothing more,
nothing less.
I'm hiding behind these colored and aged walls
just like the coward that I am.
I don't want you to just say that you understand.
I want you to be the reason why I shouldn't buy a ticket to hell.
