Nothing like mornings tinged
in depression, and stained black
with coffee steaming against the
frigid air of loneliness.
Nothing like paper mache smiles
plastered to our faces, held together
with a semblance of normality,
but easily broken with the right touch.
We look down into tear-stained
glasses of amber liquids
hoping to drown our
sorrows within them.
We find ourselves in waters
with steam rising from them,
but it could never warm our
frosted over hearts.
Instead, we find ourselves
discovering the unexpected
sharpness of razors, drawing
pictures for a happier time.
Instead of finding our happy times,
we find ourselves laying on
the ice cold tile, blood pouring
around us garnished with wishes of death.