The words
Devoid of meaning, essence, thought.
They're trickling down my neck,
And leaving me to rot.
You never spoke to me,
I never mourned the loss
Of fake serenity.

Inept at being loud,
You never make a sound.
The stream of bloody sighs
When dripping to the ground.
The crackling of the nerve
As I deserve
To which I'm bound.

You never lie,
When asked if you would let me die.
You never cared for hope.
We used to cut the night with knives
And tie it back with rope.

Existence had that awful smell,
A padded cell,
Outside your grasp.
You always had a right
To liquify all that's in sight.
And it just kept on flowing
Into arches, shaped like hell.

The nails bit cold
And deep inside
Where all can be replaced but pride,
You never voiced that something's wrong
When daggers slipped,
And mirrors tripped,
The cut too long.

But still,
The sun will rise upon a shadow.
And I will face alone the probing of the light,
While you delay the burning questions,
Forgetting to question intentions,
Pretending to exist only at night.