Run

I’m so tired of this.
Delicate words of sorrow and care.
Does this only matter when it’s your mind on the line?
What about mine?
My heart’s not a fairytale— it really exists.
And recently the bruises
Have your finger prints.
I laid myself bare, I offered my thoughts.
They shattered one by one in your hands,
And now all that’s left is the sadness and pain.

So hand me a knife,
Give me a gun,
Draft me a poison,
And hope to God that you run.