Not really a poem

Sometimes, while I lay in the shadows of the soft shimmering moon, I feel this melancholic blanket descend upon me. As the last glimmers of light leaking from between my blinds fade, so does the sunny disposition of my earlier self. I lose myself to the dreary bleakness of whatever heartbreak I have chosen to ponder tonight. To pour over and scrutinize - to pick at the seams until I myself, am falling apart. Disjointed and dissatisfied. I cry and cry over everything yet absolutely nothing at the same time. I sob for my past loves, and those that never were to be. I mourn missed oppostunities and berate myself over how I always failed to grasp on to them. I tear myself apart over the ones that I held onto so hard and refused to let go of - leaving claw marks - yet in the end they, too, left.