And with this knife, I stab YOU, but I still bleed.

Listen to this to set the mood

Sometimes, I hate you.

So I try to kill you.

Try to stab you with scissors to cut your face. 

Leave you and your body with superficial cuts yet unbleeding wounds. 

Leave your remains scattered on my floor.

Trying so desperately to etch out your damned face and carve out your presence.

Other times, I find myself gluing you back together. 

Because the space you leave is to scarring to me.

That emptiness just resonates, and it hits too close to home.

Most times I want to capture you. 

Cementing you, so paper and plastic could hold your smile forever.

There are so many of you; smiling, looking down on me, laughing or looking at me with happiness in your eyes.

Other times, your smile is just as fake as the plastic I put you in.

Don't get me wrong; the smiles are full and radiant. But eyes are vacant and dull, melancholy and quite hollow. The windows of your soul show the cannibalistic ghosts that are inside you, feeding on the corpse of your joy.

And anyone can see with great clarity that we are so separated, we are miles away from one another, set apart by our malice and misery, even though throughout every still-frame we still remain side by side.

And there are so many of you.

You are my mother, father, sister. Sometimes, you, my love, sometimes grow cold and spiteful.

I've even been left to cut and battle with MYSELF, trying so desperately to separate the YOU from ME. But sometimes they all blend into one.

So I am forced to etch out my own existence.

Still try so hard to disconnect myself from the you that lies within.

And I'm left encased, captured, locked in this room with thousands of yous on paper staring down with your many eyes.

Left to attempt to live vicariously off of these stale memories of yesterday.

My fingers tremble on your photograph.

I scream.

Cry.

Scream.

Is anyone listening?

So I fall to my knees.

My own body buried and drowning in the snips and broken paper pieces of your hearts

Forced to continue.

Continue making these cuts on your body, decapitating your heads, and ripping your hearts, limbs and more.

Doing this dirty work with my clean hands.

Forced to continue.

Continue to feed my hungry heart off of rotting smiles or phantom touches that I can still feel. 

As if you were still next to me.

All the while, letting it happen.

Letting myself become more haunted.

by the lingering you.

still present on the broken photograph.

and hanging in the memories in my mind.