lies
plague your tongue
when you whisper;
something laces the air
and it's addictive;
whether it was the lines
or the burning in the back of your throat
you found a comfort in it.
you found comfort in the way he hit you,
the way he beat
the idea
that you were nothing
into your back.
it was because you said
"it's okay."
it was because
he knew not
of what he was doing
or so he said.
you found everyone
but yourself
to blame.
there's no reason for you to cry;
you know you brought this on yourself.
your lips are like razors now,
spitting out blood
and slicing the air,
making you impossible to touch.
but is the lack of touch worth it
when the only thing
you stay in contact with
is the taste of metal
or the feeling of it
on your skin?
was it worth the risk?
to taste the medicine in your vomit again,
to feel something touch your bones
and rip into you,
to feel your stomach decay
as it became flat,
to understand yourself?
was hearing the ringing in your ears
after the final blow
worth it?
for those seven seconds of bliss?
the look on your mother's face:
you'll never forget the terror you brought to her
when she found your body.
you knew you did this to her.
you did this to yourself.
it was only a matter of time
before you figured it out.
YOU ARE READING
another empty bottle
Poetrythis is a compilation of vent poetry. I will not be including trigger warnings, an exception made for the first piece. read at your own risk. wow reading over this is embarrassing am i really that unstable
