I Was Never Good With Titles

what shall we do tomorrow?
if i should wake at all, it will be too soon.
if the sun should shine through, God laughs.
i laugh at the notion of God.
he maketh me burn and scortch and sizzle
and choke on the black, black bloodcuts of
tortured ex lovers, candy striped girls
licorice heart with scissors stabbed through
he maketh me insane to every extreme
he maketh me sick and blind to sympathy.

then what shall we do-?
slit, slit, slit.
try and try again until it feels real
try and try until i've broken, shattered like porcelain
the bull in the china shop was always you
you should know it was always you.
so what, what, what shall we do.

shall we attempt to rhyme and bicker and laugh
and smile till the dawn comes
when no sun can peak through?
or shall we sit and stare as we always do?
my life's entralling tale has been written by several hands
but the very best version was the one written by you
where i a little match girl, a princess and a pauper
rise, rise, stay strong and cling to me
your pearls, sweet kisses, have kept me here
but only till morning, you see
i've dug my grave and i'll dig it again
every sunrise i wake and i die.

do not be alarmed, do not be surprised.
you knew it was bound to happen.
i am only a girl, no less a woman inside.
sensitive to the core, weak and unhinged
why, we all could see i'd come undone
long, long before i could put pen to paper
and form seventeen empty syllables
long before i could type, or drive
` or even turn fifteen.

no blame, no pity, no revenge-
nor love or unity.
i expect nothing, i needn't your tears
farewell, au revoir, je t'adore.