Yes, I know that I am only writing
because of you.
You, giving me life.
Giving me love.
Giving me hate.
Feelings most unknown.
The aching heart,
the crying phone game
(where nothing I say works).
I see more misery than good
to my works;
Both of us in pain,
is this living?
Is this love?
It seems more like illusion,
to me.
I'm glad that it's raining today.
Hiding the world
and my shame.
Guilt.
Teeth-grinding anger
at my stupidity.
For hurting you
again.
I'm a colossal Monster
and an Idiot.
I'm glad that it's raining .
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