Every morning I slowly get used to wake up without you by my side, I find myself singing your lies of where were you every night. With my hand, I pleasure my compulsions from the lonesome longing of comfort and morning glories that we used to do cold and bare.
Flashes of bloodshed on times you weren't fair, you justify them with vindications that were manifolded like a tapestry of lies to conceal the truth as if I never knew you were on his lair.
When was the last time you kissed me a good night; amidst the great war you told me you were home, but I scented a familiar cologne. There were no more morning glories we used to share, as if they were reserved for somebody else.
Was it my fault I was too young and unprepared; telling me to be sorry for the things I never did. You said I have to trust more freely, but his presence is desire, that you yourself couldn't apply. I punished myself with guilt every time I was weak, so I tried to run away, hoping I would find myself relieved.
I wished you knew it wasn't fine: whenever he stole your time from me, not a single time you declined. You said I needed to be calm when everything was falling to the ground, you placed your palm on my face but I smelled him on your shirt, crimpled too, was I not good enough in bed for you?
YOU ARE READING
UNCENSORED (For Publication)
PoetryThis book is all about betrayals on friendships, invalid feelings, untangled fates, and taciturn and morose secrets. This is currently in the state of revision.
