You wave your red flag, and I flash my yellow warning sign.
We are two damaged people pretending to heal,
acting like orange is the colour of recovery.
A compromise between our worst faults.
We could be worse, so we call ourselves good.
You wrap your fist around my heart.
If I ever try to leave, it'll be torn from my chest.
I let sugar fall from my lips and slip salt in your coffee,
giving you the parts of myself that I deem worthy,
keeping the rest of me boxed up out of sight.
You tell me to leave.
The words emotionless as you push me towards a locked door.
In hindsight, we should've seen it coming.
This wasn't love.
It was a battlefield,
filled with a rush of adrenaline and a need to survive.
Desperate, pleading, and clawing at each others throats,
hoping to stop the bleeding but suffocating each other instead.
You promised me the world as if the world was yours to give.
I promised you my heart as if I ever had one to begin with.
YOU ARE READING
The diary of Seth Alexander
PoetryI write to cope with life, so maybe this might help someone else cope too, idk. Trigger warning for suicidal ideation, S/A, and Abuse. There's not many mentions of them directly as this is more about my emotions and moments of reflection, all neatl...
