Portraits

Words of ill infatuation looped in my head
Oscillating over and over in a din
I'm still here, you're not alone
You act like I'm dead
Holding onto memories and left to pretend
Now we're just afraid of fear
Scared of me to walk alone
Burning these self portraits and rattled to the bone
Resting in a precious place
Ruined heads can still be saved
And you say:
"Where's my son?"