Trailing down his face are burning tears of defeat, trailing down his arms and back is a story written in blood. There was no happy ending in sight and the scarring only added to the wounds that he would never speak about.
To the pain that he only wrote about.
When I looked for him I found him at the bottom of a bottle, I knew he would be there… that’s why I drank it. I had lost him but there he was, this twisted version of me.
So many flaws that make him perfect, it drops me to my knees, he only wanted to make them happy but they couldn’t see the beauty, only the desire.
In his twisted version of reality a quiet whisper kept me sane.
But I lost my grip and I started to care.
Wishing for the chance that someone might be the salvation he needs, to open up his eyes, to show him just how much he means.
But damn him for numbing his way down the path of resistance.
Like a broken doll, so different but not so wrong.
So loved but so easily disposed of.
I realized I had resisted nothing.
So damn his soul and damn this bottle.