We all destroy ourselves

With vials of poisons

Served in old pictures , Facebook memories and the last message that never reached.

Drenched in our loneliness

We keep coming back to our hurt

Wrapped so beautifully in the melancholy of music , the emptiness of books and the persistence of thought .

In the end , we are all reduced to our insecurities - empty vials and emptier

souls seeking validation in affection that was never ours in the first place .

Sometimes , there is no greater trauma than love.