He's never been so tired,

He's never been so alone.

He'll lie, claim he's fine,

But his match burns dimly.

The rain almost extinguishes it,

But he has a will to live.

His leg is sore,

A cut runs through to the bone,

But there are no crutches in sight,

There are no people in sight.

He is sick,

Mind and body,

With no one to medicate him.

Our hearts are like matches,

Catching flame

For the briefest of moments,

Then dousing in the rain.

My tired soul is cut into pieces,

I medicate the whole

But no patch-job pleases.

Your love is a crutch

Those doesn't hold me up,

Please, just go,

Because your false hope

Just teases.

"I'm fine, nothing a little rain can do to a man in crutches, Adrian." Elliott smiled widely to his fiance, shaking his head. Adrian patted Elliott's head.

"I ain't gonna worry about you, loves. I know you can do it." Pulling out a cigarette from his pocket, Elliott waved at Adrian to pull out the matches, who used those old things any way?

"Smoking is bad, Ells. You can die from it." He mumbled, handing him the box. "Back then it was used to medicate those who could not relax." Elliott's voice was gruff as he spoke to him. "It's a bad habit as well."

"Fuc- Goddamn." Adrian screamed in pain, looking at his foot. "I cut myself on glass. I haven't been so tired. I forgot the glass was even there!"

Elliott couldn't help but smile a little as he held his hand out to him.

"Promise me to start sleeping, then I'll stop this bad habit."

With the slightest trip I slam hard onto the ground, pushing the air out of my lungs. The pain, it's horribly unbearable, but I can't be making any more noise, or they'll find me. I grope my hands around the floor with my cheek pressed down, looking for my box of matches, probably scattered against the cold white ground. After seconds, feeling like minute, my hand falls over the rough end of the box. I curl my arm to catch a few matches, enough to be able to see. I strike the first, the fine flares flicker straight to life. Weight of gravity pulling me like an anchor, forcing me to crawl. I look back to see a trail of blood which leaked from the stitches of the cut on my leg. The match dies out, and so does my fatigue. They've medicated me to the point I can't feel my fingers, and it makes me endlessly tired. I look out the top half of the window, watching the rain fall hard. Hopefully it's washed away my blood trail. I plan to sleep here for the night, get this dead feeling off of me. Then by morning, i will find something to use as a crutch. Then, then I'll be free from this Mental Asylum

"That's Mercury, over there."

You give a dramatic sigh, shoving her shoulder lightly. "I KNOW, dummy. I showed you, remember?" Mercury scoffs. "Venus, don't be like that. Thought you'd be proud."

Your attention drifts to the rain outside as you strike the last of t match, lighting a vanilla cookie candle after you light a cigar. You're tired, but you're fine. Who needs sleep.

Mercury stands suddenly, lurching before she gets to her crutches. "Come on. We need to get you a bandaid." You look down and realize your finger is burnt. Oops. "It's not a cut, but we still need to medicate it." You let your girlfriend lead you to the bathroom, watching as she pulls out her med bag. An athlete and a doctor. What are the odds. You're just a pretty face.

Mercury kisses your cheek as she bandages your finger, then kisses the gauze gently. "Be careful," she murmurs, grinning.

But if not being careful gets you kisses, you might have to do it more often.