for anything, not even myself.
As the blood flows out of me,
perhaps my pain does to.
I feel it let go of my heart,
its constricting bounds all that
held me together over time.
How much kinder to me
my pain seems now,
then love did.
My pain has been true to me,
it did not hide behind a beautiful face,
nor speak to me in kind words.
It was ugly and harsh,
and knew the darkness
of its own nature.
Love,
the seed of hope,
it had found its way into my heart.
Had grown to its full bloom,
then tore free like some nightmare creature,
leaving only ruin and emptiness in its wake.
An emptiness that I never knew was there,
until it had shown me the world that could be,
that should be, but that I would never have again.
Who do I blame for this,
who should I hate
or does that grow cold, as I do.
Hate,
it seems so foreign now,
long gone like desire or passion. .
For I have thrown all that I can,
all that could have once been me
into the void that is still my soul.
I tried so hard, and it seems to only
have left me to be a hollow vessel
for those things that I would fear.
So I let the darkness in, as my world goes out
and hope that perhaps, perhaps this time
I'll lose this sense of having lost anything at all...