i bled on the pages

ink was the blood of my soul

never showing anyone, afraid of what they might think-

it makes you look Vulnerable.

times get bad, just put a smile on

because at night, when no one else is there to listen,

the pages wait to be filled with my emotions,

the ones not shown, parts that have been bitten

but the facade can only last for so long 

after wears and tears and blows to the cover

the dam broke, what did you expect?

Rash, impulsive attempt for it to be over,

i tore the pages out, threw them all away

because who needs reminders of our weakest moments?

i never want to remember, there is no need anyway.

suddenly now when i need to feel something, anything

fervently looking for them, all gone, how stupid are rash actions

not pages thrown away, parts of me.

so i sit here in fractions.