Riddles

Pack my bags.
I'm silent, I am guilty
yet not quite steady on my worn feet.
Am I ready to leave?
I suppose it's not really up to me.

I was never one for straight
sentences and riddles seem to form my words:

I adore you.

Pack my bags,
break my heart on another bitter
work of art I helped create
and now the doubt clutches at my head, makes it pound. You can't understand, Hell,
I don't.

How else could I leave this? You've been tainted, we've been tainted


I'm sure she'd take you in,

for me.
It plays in my head, you know? You hurt me and I, I tell you I love you.

What wicked tales are these?
Can I not turn and run?
It seems simple.