Ella

I’d give so many tomorrows for another yesterday with you

Sometimes I wonder if maybe I’m just going about life in the wrong way

I want someone to be my everything when no one is anything

Does the fact that I’m hurting make me inferior? Does making myself hurt more make me “wrong”? I must deserve these blades: slicing waves into my skin, slowly parting the Red Sea of which is contained inside of my veins. It feels right, so I must deserve it. Do I deserve any of this? My mind is ‘God’s’ messenger, delivering the words which cut me deeper than any razor ever could. Yet i always go back to her; the crimson droplets shimmering off of my thighs, the cold, damp feeling I get when I climb into bed. I live in my own pathetic war zone, and whatever it is, will strike. Shots fired.