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I wore the soles of my shoes out running with you,

And then I lost my grip on your hand.

You fell and shattered like a glass figurine,

And I was left to walk barefoot on your broken shards,

Wondering dimly why I had never allowed myself to build up callouses.

Now my feet ache and I can no longer tell if my throat is sore from singing or crying;

I can no longer tell if it makes a difference,

Because I'm bleeding either way:

The kind it takes more than a band aid to contain,

But part of me doesn't want to buy real bandages,

Because part of me wants nothing more than to snap my limbs like ballpoint pens,

Pour my ink into the earth and pray it hasn't become so bitter that it kills the flowers.

Author's Note

This is what happens when you stay up too late writing: you write something really bad and self pitying. For more examples, see 90% of what I write.