I have no ink left to rhyme

I have no ink left to rhyme.

Don't worry,
I am fine,
just a little dead inside.

There was a chapter,
I made it my whole book.
It wasn't a part of me,
it was me that it took.

I have tried to write,
but my pen still shakes,
shocked that a love like that
could simply break.

I search for words,
for reasons,
for something to explain why.

Instead, I find a man
a little more silent each night.

I don't have rhymes anymore.
I don't have the strength to fight.

I'm just a man
with a heartbeat,
and a graveyard inside.

The world blamed you
for the silence that remained.

How do I tell them

I was the knife,
the wound,
the reason it bled through.

You tried to keep it breathing,
I cut the wires every time.

You stitched the wounds together,
I reopened every line.

You reached for my hand
when I was determined to fall.

But when it finally lost its pulse,
and there was nothing left to save,

you salted every open scar
so I'd remember what I gave.

You pressed on the bruises
just to see if I still felt them too.

And maybe when you slowly died of the love,
you made sure I still kept that pain alive.

You turned the page like it never burned,
like nothing inside you ever turned.

And now you walk into lighter days,
where even my name no longer stays.

While I am left where silence grows,
with all the pain that no one knows.

With ghosts in my silence
that never learned how to die.