She lives with a deep heartache that nobody can cure.
Done fighting against the agony she could no longer endure.
No longer a puppet with knotted-up strings.
Or a pretty bird trapped in a cage that sings.
A knife to her wrists with a tragedy at play.
She ignores her loved ones' pleas calling out to stay.
The tears that she drowns deep inside.
While trying to keep up with all her lies.
Of the painful stories her pale wrists tell.
Of how everything has made her life a living hell.
How boulders pressed down on her weary shoulders with the word obligation.
How she's been stuck in the trauma of another generation.
How her cunt is worth more than her soul.
Or how she plays the middle child role.
She talks too much, "Learn to be quiet."
Now completely dead inside, "It's too late to untie it."
A smile that wishes to bare her teeth.
Hidden away by this thing called grief.
How bruises and cuts have become a canvas of art.
How she tried her best to shield her broken heart.
While life's been a set of complicated races.
She's struggling hard to remember her loved ones' faces.
Like the princess in the story Princess and the Pea.
She's been drowning in sleepless nights like a pirate at sea.
"The pills are not working," she's said so before.
Covered in thick dust, her files were lost in the doctor's drawer.
Her parents didn't listen, no lessons they learned.
Won't see reason, everyone's concerned.
She had a rot that grew fungus deep into the marrow.
Not an important enough person to be buried like a pharaoh.
Tragedy is a road she's crossed a few times.
Remembering cautiously that everyone has different sides.
A lesson she took seriously, her scars are her tells.
Hugging his cold pillow, she misses how he smells.
But the jealously and self-doubt had suffocated her brain.
So she cannot blame anyone for her fractured heart full of pain.
See, she's danced this tune of melancholic since the day she took her first steps.
And now much older, her deeper thoughts she reflects.
How the pain doesn't ease and just grows along with bones.
How all her choices left her at different crossroads.
Unable to go back and only forwards.
How happiness fled away and left no foreword's.
How training wheels were taken off too early.
How his hands left her tiny body feeling dirty.
How roadmaps of lust were mapped over her body.
Leaving behind in her mouth a stale taste of his coffee.
The aftertaste memory of the bittersweet hot chocolate the police offer gave her.
How his steps left ghosts even years later.
The way her ADHD rewired her brain.
How everyone else thought she was insane.
Thinking only in complex puzzles.
Of how to fix all her life's painful struggles.
When coloring out of the lines had always been more fun.
With her poetry, her suicide note, leaving everyone stunned.
It's a pain in the heart that one can't quite fix.
A run on sentence in poems that sticks.
One here is currently being written.
A run-on sentence, she is certain.
Something one will ignore with derision.
As they turn away with their own fake smile, as if they were on television.
A poem she writes she swears is almost over.
Fearfully exposing her soul in hopes of getting closure.
She wrote a story, but with a twist.
A true story of a girl that exists.
An autobiography secretly of her.
That she has written softly in verse.
The ending line finally being written.
She hopes you've read and ought to listen.
Because nothing she did was ever right.
Despite putting up quite a hell of a fight.
For years, being told she's worthless with no love potential,
That she decided to write her final goodbyes with a very sharp pencil.
YOU ARE READING
When Tomorrow Comes: Am I an Adult Yet? (Anthology)
Non-Fiction"And I asked myself, when does this burning pain end?"
