Thank you to the people that left me the broken boy

I don't have the medical equipment to stitch up his open wounds

How does a person continue to still pick at their flesh when there's a chance it could be infected?

I wasn't trained to be a doctor so I can't answer that question

Psychology isn't my major so I can't provide an explanation

But experience was my teacher when life wasn't patient with me

I know the feeling you have running through your veins

Toxic blood that can't help but to be flooded with resentment, vengeance and anger towards the one that grabbed the gun, shooting your childhood away

I'm sorry they murdered you before it could even become a part of you

And now instead of being you, you're darkness that I now have to mend and stitch

And I don't have the needle or thread

All I can do is say that I love you and hope the kisses are like painkillers, temporarily fading the pain

But because painkillers are highly addictive I'd rather not be the one you depend on

Because in order to heal you need that mirror to lean on

You are the cure to your own misery

Whether that means to fix your attitude, your outlook or your surroundings you need to fix it

Talking to me will not repair the broken boy beneath your skin lying underneath your bones whaling for love

But digging deeper beyond your ribcage that memorized the rhythms it succumbed to daily, to reach to that little boy should bring you the healing you need