What If

 
What if I told you I’m killing myself from the inside out?
We were kids falling in love and falling out with scars on our wrists and tears staining our bed sheets. Writing poems with children’s rhymes; still am, the only difference is your name is gone and our rhymes have run away with the ‘goodbye’ I couldn’t seem to let go.
What if I told you my dying wish would be to kiss you just one last time. My first and only time. We’re aging with the same scars on our wrists and the same memories in our heads - or at least in mine - and the same sappy lines of poetry that write you into every fucking silhouette of sadness you gave me. And the remedy I can’t quite remember but goddamn I’m trying.
Writing stories and barely poetic poems without those children’s rhymes is all that’s left of me. Now I’ve got a million souls begging for help inside my head while I’m needing it too.
What if I told you I don’t really love you anymore but I’m still spending whatever’s left of my only wishes just wishing to go back to that time when everything was beautiful, back when we fell in love - maybe it was just me - back when we were too busy writing sappy poetry to worry about our lips belonging to any other.
What if I told you tonight I’m killing myself? Would realize my scars aren’t part of some act you forgot to read the program for?  Would you realize that my life is not a fucking program? We’re all just some kids with scars on our wrists and every single one of them defines you.