An endless river flows silently down my cheeks.
I feel as though I cannot breathe.
I dig my nails into my thighs, and I wonder
Which aspect of me makes you seethe.
Is it the way I try so hard to impress you
With only harsh words for reward?
Is it the way that I make a fool of myself,
Being so clumsy, meek, and flawed?
Is it the way I allow my mind to wander
As I dream of a better life?
Is it the way that I conceal my emotions
Like one might dare to hide a knife?
Is it the way that I stu-stutter when speaking
While you fail to supress a smile?
Is it the way I vie to get you to love me
When we both know it is futile?
Is it the way that I quietly hum and sing
To myself to relieve my stress?
Is the way that I keep failing to mask the
Fact that inside, I am a mess?
Is it the way that my eyes glisten forlornly
When I am made afraid and numb?
Is it the way I shy away from the future,
Unsure of what I will become?
Is it the way I run my fingers through my hair
When I feel scared and insecure?
Is it the way that I always hesitate as
I am reluctant and unsure?
Is it the way that I am uneducated
In the tricky realm that is grace?
Is it the way I get so worried about small
Problems that I begin to pace?
Is it the way that I am always so careful,
Knowing I break all that I touch?
Is it the way that all of my hard effort
Simply never accounts to much?
Is it the way I take pride in my work and spend
All my time making it perfect?
Is it the way I obsess over the details,
Changing them until they are wrecked?
Is it the way that I flinch when you shout at me
And I cower backwards with dread?
Is it the way I could manifest an ocean
With all the tears that I have shed?
Is it the way that I am far too innocent
So you think that I am a bore?
Is it the way my voice is used selectively,
Making me easy to ignore?
Is it the way I quickly become embarrassed
And turn the colour of a rose?
It is the way that you believe it is uncool
How my ardour for learning shows?
Is it the way my that demonic temper means
I always have a war to fight?
Is it the way that I use my voice as a sword
To defend what I think is right?
Is it the way your words fragment me making it
Far too easy to make me cry?
Or is it because I see through your leather skin
Enough to doubt you when you lie?
I wish you would tell me why it is you hate me
But you will never let me know;
My obsessing and tearing apart over what
I do wrong amuses you so.
You will keep me guessing and hurting and breaking
Until my skin turns cold and blue
Because my peripeteia- my slow, painful
Destruction- is a game to you.
