Pompeinative

Am I more or less than the pieces that make me? The love I receive seems real, but more of an agreement.  I give a piece of me to every sweet talker. Is it ever real love, or just a love of an idea, or parts. If I can't find any redeeming qualities, could anyone else. I'm so maluable  I forget my real face. How can someone who only sees my body, know anything more. I am just a mold, made to fit any situation, because I don't like my reality. The love I get is for my looks, sex, and usefulness. I feel like that's all I equate to. Some people are deep, there are more than just the parts that make the whole. That's not me, I'm less and

I feel this sickness growing, flourishing deep inside my core. Consuming every inch of me, And begging still for more. My body is forever hollow, a shell with nothing to hold. My feelings are quick silver,   waiting to take form and mold. Everything is spinning, Spiralling to a sure demise. The only truth I know, Everyone at some point dies. Why should I be different, What's special in my case. I am now accepting my loss, And taking second place. Its hard to be this honest, Its even harder to hear the truth. Its hard when your hands have slipped And your just hanging by a noose. Now the light is gone, I am the only one who is left here.

Lonesome days give way to sleepless nights. Long mornings before the dawns light. One sided conversions play back in my mind On a never ending hunt with nothing to find. Reliving those moments keeps me going and makes me feel alive Pacing nervously along the ledge waiting for the dive All wounds heal given the time. Who will be the judge when it comes to mine? Do all scenarios play out the same? Will I be the party who receives the blame? Cold creeps in as the sun goes black My heart fills with all that I lack