For what reason do I bare these arms
if their flick does not fluster
and their embrace does not ease

For what reason do I glance with these eyes
if their concern does not comfort
and their ghost does not give

For what reason do I speak from these lips
if their sweetness does not soften
and their cool does not calm

If my touch leaves no fingerprints
when I press skin to the world
then what is the purpose of my effort?

Or perhaps I do leave marks
a stinging slap
a gouging gaze
a ravenous rip

Then my resolve is of hellish terms
and I am consumed by demons

When the normal is expected and consumed with boredom,
and the highs pass along unnoticed because they are so humanly desired,
and the lows are too painful to survive through, let alone move on from,
who has the right to ask me to continue trying to live?

Who on this Earth possesses any righteous ability
to command me to survive?
No one.
And yet, I am powerless to stop them.

To put it quite simply; it hurts.

As tears form in my eyes;
the fairy lights on the walls glisten and dance.
I look at myself in the mirror,
only to look away, because I hate the look of despair.
The whole house stands still.. with just the mere sound of the clock ticking.
My lips are burning, my body is shaking,
my palms are cold, and my neck is sweating.
Love isn't distant.
Love isn't this pain.
Love is solicitude and respect.
So why am I hurting in this way?