Itâs too late for that now
At 5 am When the world is asleep, my thoughts wake me up The silence of the night is my companion, the moon is my lover
The darkness in my room gives me enough light to write It hides me from the world, and exposes me to myself
My body shakes as my soul is trying to escape This skin is not mine, This body does not belong to me
I get up, crawl into the bathroom I look into the mirror, someone Iâve never met is looking back at me Her black eyes are soulless My body shakes The mirror, blue glass with a horrid figure Her face is white, like a corpse, hands long for a place to touch If you were to cut me open, a black void would fill the room. Try it! For you cannot kill someone who is already dead
When you find my blood stained body, do not touch me, for this darkness might consume you too
When you find my empty body, take a picture, for Iâve never felt this calm
Know, thereâs a letter on my bed, a blank note, explaining exactly how I feel
Do not blame yourself, itâs too late for that now. Just tell my mom, I know she is sad. When she starts screaming, pulling her hair out, remind her that is too late for that now Even if she had listened when I told her I was sad, Iâd still be sad Forbid her to blame my father, and take the beer out of his hands. Warn him about the dangers of smoking, Like I used to he wonât listen though, he never did anyway
And most important of all, hug my little sister, tell her heaven was calling Even if we both know thatâs not true
On my funeral. donât let anyone cry Itâs too late for that now Where were their tears when I needed to clean the blood out of my floor? Where were their flowers when I needed to smell something other than vomit?
If someone says âI never saw that comingâ Slap them âShe looked so happyâ Slap them again Just because you donât pay attention, it doesnât mean itâs not happening My mind was an ocean and I was drowing, what I wouldnât give for a hand to reach I screamed to make you listen. but you only complained about the noise
But now the flowers keep coming, like they still have unfinished conversations, like something is left to say
All these black dressed and black smokings All these empty chairs I collected tears like stamps and sent them to you in hope youâd come Itâs not your fault for not caring, Itâs my own, for thinking you would
