You can’t glue back a teapot and make it work like it used to, the cracks would grow with hot water and the seeping heat would burn your fingers. 

You can’t glue yourself together either, you see, there are these cracks within you that are always going to let lose your inner, murky thoughts. 

Your cracks will hurt those who try to touch you. Your crack are jagged, and those hands, those warm hands that run their hands over you will be pricked. Running red blood will drip and seep into those cracks, like you want them to. 

You want them to don’t you?


I think I am dying

I think I am dying

everytime I see you update your Instagram with those black and white photos of
things that no longer

I think I am dying

everytime I hear you listen to Damien Rice,
put on replay of
The Greatest Bastard.

I think I am dying,

everytime I smell your cigarette smoke burn onto fabric with carelessness,
because you don’t care
what you wear.

I think I am dying every time I imagine not living with a world with you.

I am dying.