Your grasp: like rusted chains that pull me into the abyss what you call love. Those rustic chains are painted with gold – glistening in the sun but invisible at night. My existence you perceive as a compass, whilst my gold crest chips at the edges. Your mind ceases any regard for the burnt, toxified souls that you leave behind. I don’t pretend to share hope, but with you its hard to give – as giving means receiving and I don’t want your falsehood. There is a darkness which clings to my side, impenetrable and silent. I don’t want this darkness to become loud in your presence. My wounds always heal, but with your help they continue to bleed. Nothing that escapes from your grasp remains unharmed, as the lies you have told grant wishes but destroy lives. I don’t need the bubble which surrounds us and disconnects us from reality. I am fine on my own, but if you find someone else like me in your future, leave before you hurt them.