Drinking coffee by a window,

relaxing music in the background.

Reading a book about a sad widow,

with no one but me and my thoughts around.

The dream and fantasy of the future,

finished, done with school where the halls had crowds.

Air filled with the simple scent of nature,

now the sky is painted with gray clouds.

Calmness settles in the room around me,

the coffee shop is where I feel at home.

and bitterness is not my cup of tea,

Where all the places I may roam.

Nothing will make me feel the way I feel,

about the coffee shop that feels surreal.

To feel the tear of your flesh amid my teeth, The taste of your blood dripping from my lips, The slide of my knife back into its sheath, And the touch of my hands across your hips. As I look down at myself in disgust, Admiring the dirtiness of my skin, You say, “I am buried in unfair lust,” I return, “Does it not feel nice to sin?” While you wait for the emptiness to arrive, I place a hand over the lack of mine, And the warmth feels so alive, So I look back to my beloved shrine. Your body slick with the shining of blood, You crawl up my throat in a filthy flood.

The pure snow falls upon the ground, disturbed.

Can one cover up hurt with purity?

Is this truly what I even deserve,

Throwing away my insecurity?

I cannot rip off part of myself.

What will even remain? It’s been too long,

Cobwebs and spectres moved onto that shelf.

Without, it's been emptiness all along.

Wrapped up in my own pain, I forgot to

Have a personality. All that’s left 

Are empty walls, only a residue

From when I first created the dark cleft.

With no space between person and problem,