It’s four something in the morning, and my stomach is churning, and my eyes are burning,
from the food I haven’t eaten, or the nights I haven’t slept in.
I lost track of all the times I was worried about being worried because wallowing in it just isn’t enough anymore.
If you were in my place you would’ve left a long time ago, but me? No. I stayed because I saw potiential at the tip of a broken glass.
The same tip in which cut deeper than the ocean The same tip which was once whole.
There was never any purpose nor was there grief; For you can only grieve what’s been lost
How can there be loss if there was never any possession?
This possession of passion in which was consumed mentally and emotionally alone. Thus,
Rendering the tip of the broken glass that cut me... Yet; it still stuck deep,
...and refuses to budge.