drowning in my emotions, with the scribble of a pen.
I do not know how to be missed,
only know the steps it takes to
make someone leave.
My grenade of a heart detonates
and scatters every trace of what
I could never hold onto,
leaving holes where there used
to be carvings of emotions
from people who had scars on their minds
and knives in their hands.
I wince every time my veins pump
the sludge my blood has turned into,
ready to burst and chase away the rest
of whom I can never bring close enough.
I do not have the number of fingers it would take
to count the lives I have demolished,
or how many sleepless nights have plagued me
with bags under my eyes and
a hollowness that weighs more than any bomb.