Please stop it.
Please stop complaining
and raining on my day before it
even starts. Sure, I’m a part of your
life, but you might as well drive a knife
into my chest, and forget the rest. You love me,
you hurt me, more like impale me, breaking the frail
me, then you hail me with affection, the very definition of
a crooked love, and all above, it’s even more messed up that
I kind of love it. It’s total shit that you’ve drugged me into thinking like
this, like I’ll miss you being control of every damn thing.
Your touch is the most
magnetic thing in the world,
should I keep it in my heart forever?
And if ever you stop hurting yourself,
I’ll return it, and you’ll finally discern it as
love, like that way it should be, no cruelty, no
misery, just love, in the middle of chaos, that quiet
pause we both need, you and I, away from the cry and sigh
of pain, away from shame. You won’t need to contain the way you
truly feel about life, you can shoot at the sky with a rifle, smile and laugh
without stifling like you always do, me and you, in the center of chaos.
Stop doing this for me,
you have to see that you don’t
really need me. If anything, do this
for you, and get through with the biggest
grin, like you’ll win the lottery because someday
you will, but still, do this for yourself, never me, you
should love yourself instead of me. I’m a tragedy, but so are
you. You can still turn this around, walk proud and be happy, shine
in the light I never got to see. If anything, do that for me. Please.