Maybe it's a leaky tank or maybe it's maybelline

I'm running out.
Of what we both ask?
I'm running out of the will -
To fuck, to play, to breathe.
I've grown in this mold I was presented.
Its thorns scar me and its deformities keep me posted.
Of how I could never be enough.
When will my tears of pity light me up.
Or will I grow roots of self loathing as I'm drowned in sorrow.
In the soil that was made fertile from my blood.
Will I get closer to my mothers roots as I echo in her pain.
Then experience the emptiness as I reach for eternity but never touch.
Her roots growing further away as the earth spins.

I'm running out.
Of what can we replace it with?
Love.
And nobody has loved me today.
I was loved yesterday for something I can't control.
I will be loved tomorrow for grades I struggle through.
But nobody has loved me today the way I love me.
The way it makes me be without fear.
The way I notice the little things of me -
That makes me want to breathe.
And I'm running out of loving me for good it seems.