Death Of A Jamaican

I’m overwhelmed. I’m not even in my right mind anymore. I can’t recall the last time I was in my right mind. Shit, damn, motha-fucka. I can’t recall when last I’ve been alone in my own thoughts, saturated with positive vibes. It’s been a while man.

Mr. Secret held me in his arms and loved me passionately. I can still feel the heat, and the sore parts of my body remind me of all we did. He made me feel like I was his, and I wiped the sweat from his face, I made him feel like he was mine, but this was a façade. Mr. Secret doesn’t love me. He doesn’t have intentions of loving me. He doesn’t want me for more than what I have to offer him. It breaks my heart, but I know I can overcome this. Why?

I feel that there is more to my life than death. I can’t chase my life down with sleeping pills and a glass of pineapple soda. Sleeping pills are not a treat. Sleeping pills can’t be the way I get through the night. I have to cry. I have to cry and let it out. I wish there was a cure for a broken heart, and that my friend didn’t call me today to tell me my ex has a girlfriend. I wish the tears held up when I rode the train home today, and that my migraine didn’t feel like my head was cracked open.

I wish I could turn the clock back and erase all I had done, because one asshole opened Pandora’s box and now, I crave that love, that touch, that “I love you”. He opened me with one kiss and now, he’s no longer mine. He belongs to another woman…

Carmen xoxo

tears on my pillow…

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