Crush my lungs.

If I can’t breathe,

Then I can’t speak.

All these broken drums.

You played the mind games

Endlessly.

It’s poison, not love.

It’s the worst of drugs.

I wrote this very poem once.

Called it fiction, not fact.

Now when I look back,

I know that I meant it all,

experienced what I said.

Because here I am with poison in my blood,

Blood filling up my lungs,

Broken mind, broken heart,

Scars from your “love”

I fell to pieces,

To the beat,

Of all your broken drums.