Autumn.

I'm doing this to myself.
No ones forcing anything down my throat.
But they're the ones that make me do it.
And don't I just love it when I get hurt.
Don't I just love it when the daggers are driven through me until their tips touch my spine.
Place your hands on my shoulders. Can you feel the warmth? Can you feel the pulse underneath my flesh?
I'm giving you my everything.
I'm making you my world.
What else do you want from me.
None of it seems to be enough.
Once I realize I have you in my arms, you slip out and throw yourself on someone else.
And then you come back and do it again.
I'm giving up on you. You're starting to make me sick.
Bitter again, as bitter as I was before.
It weighs on my memory like sins linger guilty minds.
Don't tell me I mean allot to you. It's a lie.
You say the same thing to everyone else.
So don't expect me to feel more special than them.
All of this is worthless.
I'm done.

x.