I'm used to it

One of those late night poems, bringing it over from my tumblr.

I'm used to people forgetting.
I'm used to people leaving,
But what I'm not used to is the sound of my own breathing.
I hear it every night when crying in bed
While all these fucked up thoughts run through my head.

Why can't I just stop them?
Why won't they go away?
It's the nightmarish thoughts that destroy me at the end of the day.
I can't turn it off, like pictures in my head.
But I need more than a closet, I keep all my skeletons in the shed.

I'd burn the bones so they won't haunt me,
But in the end the guilt would stop me.

I'm so screwed up and my bloods dripping red
And I still don't understand what's wrong with my head.