Posted in Blog, Creative Writing, Personal, Writing

The Girl With The Hopelessly Romantic Heart

Inside my corpse, is a gallery.

Haunted, harrowing harm,

that I inflicted on myself,

a collection of corpses,

within my corpse,

that is kept warm,

by my eternally beating, broken heart.

I don’t know that I ever existed,

sometimes I looked at myself as a museum of my muses,

how they slipped through my fingers,

how I found myself so busy,

being fascinated with them,

that I never found the time to find myself.

What am I,

except an endless cry of

“Darling, I’d do anything”?

Unrelentingly uttered to the lonely lobby I live in,

shadows of senseless goodbyes,

that wait on my walls,

staring me down,

far after all light has left.

Cut me open,

and see how little remains.

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