The weight of denial sits on my shoulders,

adding pounds to an already crumbling structure, 

must I know the details of your far away night?

Listening closely I found a false hope,

that maybe my heart was still held close,

but laughing at the sheer thought,

I let myself fall deeper.

Drowning in the small confinement of my mind,

my soul screamed out for saving,

but my heart enjoyed the torture,

for I deserved every cut,

every bruise.

And for it began,

the night of whispering,

and worn out jealousy.

Nothing could be done,

it was always going to come.

Sitting alone in the dark,

not even the music could cover the sounds.

Bringing the blade to my hand,

I knew for some reason,

that never again would I see hope,

because while my soul cries out,

my paper thin skin is scarred,

and my battle with faith has ceased.

Every doubt I ever had flares to life,

calling the burning emotion to the surface,

where insecurities rip at the skin thats left,

and "I told you so" echoes about.

Let it be to the scorned soul,

to still listen to the whispers,

while the heart endures the burning of revenge,

never losing its beat,

for the fate had already been decided.

Hell wouldn't it have been better being heartless?

But bigger plans were in the future

and burned skin laid among betrayal. 

Even when the coldness sunk in,

the broken heart still burned with sour vengeance.

A poison it was to smolder with hatred,

but for the hatred to turn into self loathing,

its was a new cause to the self damnation

that was to be of the broken souls.