The fact that you don't love me.
Eats away at my sides. Slowly. I'm going through death from the inside.
I want to set my face on fire.
To prove that I can be as ugly on the outside as I am on the inside.
If you couldn't already tell.
I want to be done.
I want to be finished.
I'm fucking tired of them.
My tears fall as I write.
They fall down my weak body, leaving a trail of black.
They make their way to the river I've cried for you.
Why don't you kill me?
You've already destroyed my hope.
So kill me however you want to.
You already killed my faith in love
When you stopped.
I must've changed, or something.
My tears are warm.
They taste salty.
The only thing I can do is cry.
I'm too afraid to do anything else.
And I hate that.
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