Gathering my thoughts up like rose petals, and letting the world shine on them to dry.
there are pangs, pangs of me missing pieces of my soul. when I left, he filled his missing pieces with pieces of crack. I lick my wounds by trying to convince myself that everything is exactly as it should be, that it wasn’t my fault. That I did nothing wrong.
there are pangs, pangs of me missing pieces of my soul.
and while I never picked up a knife or a gun,
it feels like I killed a man.
