I slash my soul to spill the ink I need to spill on paper.

My hand glides quickly,as my lungs inhale the vapors.

Coughing out the blackness,watch it spatter on the white.

The form of pictures in the words that haunt me in the night.

My fingertips clawing at blurry blue lined notes,

grasping as though it were the choking in my throat!

False confessions mean nothing.

A coerced tale may ring true,

But it wasn't meant to be so.

Perhaps it wasn't intended for your ears

Wasn't crafted in my heart to be spoken at all.

You may think you help

And I will be set free as a bird

But all you set free is resentment.

I built this up inside for myself alone.

These words are not meant to be shared.

They are not meant to be squeezed out of me

Along with bubbling tears and hiccuping sobs.

My soul should not be bared out of shame

Left shattered in pieces on a kitchen table.

A beautiful thing such as this

Was not meant to be wrenched away from me

And laid for all to see

Leaving me in shambles.

Was I built only to be broken?

Or do my words mean nothing

Unless accompanied by hysteria.

You could have waited

Until I was prepared to share myself

But instead, you assume that this confession

Was how it always was.

That it was never a beautiful and careful story

Slowly readying itself for the world.

A forced premature birth.

I crafted these words for me

And anyone I would choose

Not to be falsely rearranged by you

And wrung out of me

Dripping out of my mouth along with any chance you had

At having anything but my

False love.