Between books and unfinished thoughts

The wound open wide.

Yet never staining the white.

Nobody can see it,

but I can feel the

infection.

Hoping for a cure,

never sure,

searching for a soul

More than breathing,

More than books,

Or my inner world.

I loved you.

To you.

To everything I ever loved,

To hear the wind alone.

To be forgotten.

On the inside, as well as on the outside.

But it is not hate.

I do not hate the way I behave or how I look.

I just feel as if everything I do and feel and every time I look in the mirror something does not fit.

As if I do not belong.

As if I am an intruder.

Everything I touch is in ruins.

Everything I make is destined to be monstrous.

I was created for abomination,

I was raised for the shadows,

I was dreaming of light.

Not the big bad wolf,

not a puppy in disguise,

just right in the middle,

of my emotional demise.

Rotten work done poorly,

Destroying itself surely,

Forgiving,

Forgetting:

I lived a half-truth.

I lived inside.

I lived.

I live.

of my decaying hideout?

When is the mirror not my only picture?

When is acid not my only signature?

-

When the waves arise,

looking at an eternal sunrise,

I will be gone.

Nothing's wrong,

the world just doesn't like my song.

-

Meant to be,

never see.

to abandon life,

seeking the unknown

and forgetting the past,

seeking truth