I know that I’m not pretty and a few likes on Instagram doesn’t make me important.
Life isn’t some fairytale it’s just a lot of bad with dreams thrown in it.
It’s a silent room trying to make my body fit your shape.
The pieces of my heart burn.
The edges catching flame, until there is a fire roaring inside my chest.
They beg for you to smother them out.
Drown out the pain and take me down.
The edges of the scars you left tug at me.
The pain makes me dizzy and close to throwing up.
This grainy picture is only the build up.
Sometimes I ask myself if I ripped my beating heart from my chest and handed it to you would that finally be enough for you to see I care?