Books.

I forgot how to cry.

All I know is how to remain floating in this sea of insecurities.

I should throw my books out the window, I never meant to get lost in them.

Or maybe I did, maybe that's all I wanted after all, 

to get lost in pages that look like me, and speak like me

and describe my hell preventing me from painting its walls 

and making a nice place out of it.

These pages cry my tears, steal them from me.

They're soaking wet, turning themselves into all the things I wanted to be,

all the things I used to be,

all the things I've burnt in each cigarette I've buried in my lips.

Someday I'll get them back, I mean, the tears.

There's violence and a glass full of weapons to kill my illusions.

Have you ever killed an illusion, stabbed the fuck out of it 'till there's nothing left but sorrow?