They say that my problems are dumb,
When they've only begun,
To scratch at the surface.
They do not know what I've been through,
The things I've done,
The bone I've to pick.
They cannot see,
Past their own misery.
They see only joy,
When really I am all but empty,
Inside.
I gave up a long time ago,
Back when my mind was fresh and free.
Back when I,
Was still....me.
They do not know,
How my hands itch.
To give that knife a flick.
To make it open,
And drag it across too white skin.
They do not understand my toil,
While my life begins to uncoil.
They have not seen how I laugh at my hurt,
Because truly my pain brings me mirth.
They do not see how I beg to be hit,
To be hurt,
To be broken beyond repair.
They do not know how I cry on my own,
Because I have nowhere I consider home.
I have a house,
A little tin box.
But a home,
I have not.
I have no space,
To call my place.
I have no person,
To call mine.
I have no place to be,
No one to see.
I only have work,
I have very little mirth.
I have hatred,
Welling deep inside.
But joy I do not have,
No matter how I bide my time.
I have my books,
I have my almost non existent talent to cook.
I have no skills,
I have no bills,
I have only hills,
Upon hills,
Of pain meriting no gain.
So when they ask me 'what did I do to make you this way?'
And I say 'it was never you.'
It was a lie,
Because how do you begin to say,
'The words you say,
Hurt me everyday'.
Or
'The words you say hold no truth,
Despite all of my youth.'
I only want to be free,
From all the words they say,
To me,
Every
Single
Day.
YOU ARE READING
Stitches
PoetryThey held her mouth shut. They whispered in her ear and bled into her heart. But she never knew where to start. These feelings that she just wants to be done, They sit in the back of her mind like a loaded gun. So she squeezes the trigger a litt...
