I once knew a girl,

who truly believed:

she wasn't worth being loved.

She pushed everyone away,

until they couldn't bear the pain

of picking up her own glass shards

as she cleaned her bloody knuckles raw,

secretly in love with the pain

and the scars that were left behind.

She killed herself today.

Why do

you hurt 

yourself?

No one 

has ever 

cared enough 

to tell me: 

to stop.

I wish I could read minds. I wish I could crawl into the skin of others and make my home in their hearts. I wish I could take the pain of the world away. I wish I could silence thoughts and slow down speeding trains with rushing hearts. I wish I could breathe the secrets of life into the dead. I wish I could calm the raging wars of seas. I wish I had a million years to live. I wish I were immortal. I wish. I wish. I am but a poet with many words unspoken and letters yet used. There are many more unfinished sentences to come, fooling everyone with ending periods. If only one read the unwritten lines between blank spaces. The hidden messages, conveying truth as pure as salt with its sweet bitter taste.

You never wanted me.

You just needed me.

I hear you ask if there’s a difference.

The difference lies in your indifference towards my assistance,

rather than appreciation towards its existence.

It lies in your need for minimal physical distance,

while you have no issue with keeping your heart out of my reach.

It lies in your need to hear my comforting speech,

rather than let me speak the truth my heart bleeds to release.

It lies in your need for me to put your worries at peace

It lies in your perception of me as an essential,

rather than as a choice preferential

I fell in love with you,

and 

your body at sea.

You asked me why(?) I craved you,

I answered,

"Because you scare me."

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Î̵̮͉̞͚̍̐̐͟͟͡ n̨̮̱̻̹̝̺̣̈̇͛͗͢͞͡ȩ̵̦͖̘̓́͛̂̆̋̔͜e̛̙̯͚̹̰͚̣̖͒̓͊̿̑͐͘d̸̢̢̙͎̳̦̣͖̙̼̂̂̿̓̿́͌̏͌͒ y̢̺͓̻̠͌̏̾̊̾͟o̫̘͉̟̱̱̓̇̈́̈́̚͟ͅû̧͚̩̻̎̓͗͂͟ ẗ̸̢͍͉̰͚̥̥̳̃̾͆̇̈͝o̢̖̬͖͉̾̄̅̃̕ ķ̜̲̬͍͖͎̃͆͌̂̐̾́͞ͅͅn̴̡͙͓̰̪̮̎̄͂̋͊̈́͆̚͘͢o̷̩̟̟͓̘̫̝̍̀̌͆́̀̍̐̑̕ͅw̲̘̩͔̺̦̌̾͑͒͒͡ t̸̰̙͎̫̙̽͌͋̎̎̄̚͘͡͠h̸̯͇̯̻͈͕̉̄̓̓̀̈́̎̽͘͞i̵̡̠̬̻̘̽̍͂͐͂̑̏ş̸̪̞̲̬͇͓̤̮͈̓̉̎͐̌̓̚

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w̵̨̬̫͇̮͇̳͌̈́̅͋̅̈̂̊̕͟â̰̖̮͔̰̪̝̩͇̔̈͊̋̂͊̏͜͠s̵̮͕͔̟̙̯̥̱̆͗̎̀̇̋̅͒͜͜͡ ǫ̴̱̤̩͙͙̫̩͐̓̆̍̂̀͘͡ͅņ̛̭͎͚̜͉̩̰̆̌͊͐̈̅̎͝ļ̝̩̺̹̣͂̅̊̈́̍͢ͅͅy̸͎̞̜̜̣̤͉͙̬̐́̊̽̍͘͞͠

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t̢̥̣̆̏͒̾͋̎̋̇́͒͜͢e̬̯̲̠͍͐̾̇͒̀͛̉̈̐͢m͙̮̝͚̬̫̐̊̋͋̌̎͝͞p̟̪̪͉͎͕̈̉̂̈́͗̀̀͘͜ǫ̜͚̮̞͉͊̐͒́̎̿͟͠͞ṛ̵͕̗̦̗͌̌̏͆̍̇̔͑͡a̘̤̖̦͕͚̦͈̼͛̅̉͋̏̆͆̿͟͝r͙̘͕̳̝̒̇͊̋͞y̸̱̞̗̲͐̏̈́́͜͢͝͝͡ 

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