Too cruel, aren't I?
I messed up. Sorry.
I really did mess up.
Truth is, that I've been messing up for a while now.
Realisation hit me late, quite late.
I'm sorry for what i did to you.
The sense of remorse struck me now,
Just now,
when I saw an old picture of you.
So innocent, adorable.
I stared at you, for so so long.
Then as all do now a days,
urged to preserve that picture on my phone,
(Easier access).
I took you in,
in my gallery with a myriad more things I preserved to remember,
which i did ultimately forget.
(Maybe you'll be forgotten too, one day, not the point to be made now, tho.)
Then I looked at you again,
don't know why,
but my sleazy fingers went to the tools, like they always do.
Filters, and stuff.
Again, don't know why,
but I felt the urge to slim your little face, thin your nose, enlarge your eyes.
I wanted to make you look slimmer.
I wanted you to look 'not you'.
Soon enough,
disgust crowded me,
HOW COULD I?
You're a child, merely seven, in the picture.
HOW COULD I?!
What have I done?
Hey, you,
I'm sorry.
I apologise, to YOU.
I'm yet to apologise to me.
I'm not disgusted yet,
of the fake alterations I've made on myself.
I'm not nearly disgusted of the tailored version of myself I've designed.
Many find that altered version desirable,
or maybe that's just an excuse,
maybe I find that altered version desirable.
How pathetic.
Coffee always burns my tongue,
but it's me, ultimately, who seeks the burn,
for the bitter sweetness in my mouth feels good.
When I can finally move past the bitter sweet taste to understand how it comes with the burn,
I'll stop.
I'll stop drinking coffee,
maybe.
Hey, you,
I'm sorry I butchered you.
Hey, me,
I'm sorry I butchered you.
~
*Sigh* simpler vocabulary, at last.
Interaction is welcome. ")
YOU ARE READING
DWAM
Puisi"Poetry is the journal of the sea animal living on land, wanting to fly in the air. Poetry is a search for syllables to shoot at the barriers of the unknown and the unknowable. Poetry is a phantom script telling how rainbows are made and why they go...
