You made me stop writing somewhere inbetween
Black coffee at one AM in the morning
And candle lit rooms with whispered lies
of how much you love me and how it is time to let
go of something once cherished now thrown
in bits among the rocky winter seas.

You made me hate writing somewhere close to
the genocide of words beat open like
when you get wasted at a party and enjoy
the torment of punching me down and in your
slaps like candy I devuldge in a memory of all those
boys who said I wasn't good enough, but look at me now.

You made me loathe writing like a massacre of
condradictions that I use to hate but now have
to recite in the mirror as I'm covering up my wounds
all the hypocritical things I've done like when I wrote
my term paper on smoking causing brain damage but
now I take hits from a bong every time it's passed.

You made me put down the pen and the paper when
I had to slither into my house and sleep in the blood
and makeup and vomit and tears, knowing
in the morning I'll wake up to find the annihilation
of a mind that once wanted to become an author but now
have to put on a turtle neck and hope it's your good day.