The Pattern of Lace

As I examine the pattern of lace
Around my once clean wrists
I think about your face
And all the lies of which it consists

My life is dissolving into nothingness
It is made of you. Only you.
The fact that I cut because of you is meaningless
Because you don’t know it’s you; don’t know what you do

My friends ask what’s wrong?
Why do you write all these sad poems and songs?
Maybe it’s because I refuse to speak
Or maybe because I’m too shy; too weak
To say what I want to say

Here, right now, on the fourteenth of May
I will say what I want to say

I hate you so much,
That feelings as such
Shouldn’t be heard

I love you so much
That feelings as such
Cannot be explained with words

So, that being said
As I lie in my bed
I wish I was dead

But wait,
Heaven wouldn’t be better;
There are men there too