Heather Cote

Advantage

I should be using this to my advantage
Spitting fire with my pen
I can be the martyr
If I’m willing to rip open
Small repairs my heart made
While I was sleeping
Tiny stitches time used
To heal your carelessness
I would have made you immortal
But, poems of love do not sell anyway
The raw, bitter pain that comes
When you let another in so completely
That sells
If a pen can capture the feeling that day
When you decide you’d rather die
Than feel this empty anymore
That sells
Hell sells
So, I guess
I’ll see you there