3 AM

Is a time not of morning,

But of mourning

Ghosts that came before

And can never be forgotten.

Eyes of exes

Empty souls

From well-worn desks

And armchairs,

Screaming with visions

Of how love

Could have lived

If you only spent

Just a little more.

See, through their windows,

How you killed

Their souls.

For they are dark

And dead

For you.

The figures of past

Familial love

Narrow circles

Into slits

When they see who

You have become.

Potential wasted

On your sorry excuse

Of a child

Surfaces into the air

Between you

And their funeral.

Silhouettes of love

Turned hate

Stand still

On my bedroom walls.

They come to remind me

That I am not worth

Loving forever;

That I am not even worthy

Of their true presence.

Only their shadows.