It’s Getting Worse

I will write you poems,

From the blood the pours from my wrist.

The colour of your eyes in the sunlight,

Matches the noose hanging in my closet.

Your hand grips mine so passionately,

The same way I held the empty pill bottle.

Your sent is intoxicating,

I just wish I could be locked with it inside a plastic bag.

You gently splashed me in the tub,

And the waves made me want to go to the sea and swim as far as I could so I couldn’t make it back.

I thought loving you would make me better, but you have given death a romantic touch. And I love her more than I could ever love you.

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