On My Own

On My Own</b></i>

My heart is pregnant with afterbirth,
And feels like a dismissed whore,
My eyes are watery,
And feel like a cup of arsenic,

Except it didn’t take nine months,
But me being a dunce,
Except they don’t melt at eight-hundred-and-seventeen,
But at you being mean.

Should have known,
Should have guessed,
So unlike you,
To leave my torment,
And give me a rest.

My body broken,
My heart torn,
Somehow it feels a little late for scorn.

I feel so used, tired and worn,
So perhaps it’s better to leave me here; forlorn,
Maybe it’s just better to let me off here to mourn,

On my own..