swevens of vernorexia

cinaede

  
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
– is this the sacrifice for the broken?
   
   
   
   
   
  
  
  
   
  
like the strings of a guitar,
my heart thrums a beat of longing,
a longing for an ending of love,
a love of acceptance,
an acceptance of my being.

there's scars scattered all over my night,
a constellation of black holes,
rooted with the vines of an ugly emotion,
an emotion called hate.

those thorns of self-loathing i sowed,
have grown branches of thorns,
that now make me itch my confidence off,
like dead skin,
just when i was on the brink of accepting myself.

why?
why me?
why had it to be me?
is this the sacrifice i owe?
why?

no,
i won't let this grow.
no,
i won't let this get to me.

i will bear the wrenching of roots off my heart,
i will bear the pain of being dug apart,
i will bear it all,
if this will uproot this disease.

i may never go back to what i was,
and maybe i don't want to,
all i want,
is to replace these scars with stars,
so i may love nights again.

i will wait,
and wait,
and wait,
and wait,
for if i have me by my side,
i will bring a collision of my universe back again.