My fingers are cold.

She gave him every last part of tenderness, she gave him everything she had, she was young and blond. He didn't care to hang around, smoked his last cigarette, stuck his tongue for one last time in her throat and extinguished the fire in his heart.

He left her without looking back, chained to shame, disgust and heartache she stayed behind. Crying like a baby, praying to the dull knife she clings in her hands. The love she once drank so greedily, now merely is a choking.

She fills my mirror with the face of the beaten girl, it's an ugly display. But in the end, I should have known that a damned soul as yours can't care about a little girl who wants to caress your heart.

Two days ago I had a dream. He was laying beside me in bed, his hands stroked my face, the tears moistened my pillow. His soft hands that stroked my face appeared to be nothing but dirty, dead, broken bones. They scraped the skin of my cheeks and cut my tongue out of my mouth. He left the bed, dumped me in my bloody state, I wonder why he tortures my mind so? The silence is empty and my lips are dry, his smell has left my bed.

They tell me it isn't me, it's you. But I believe it's me because of you. I don't want you anymore, but craving you I will always do.