poems

discomfiture

A/N at the end.

i keep coming back
to the word that split me open—
embarrassing.
a stone in the hollow of my throat.

i'm back again, in the cycle,
it feels different but the ache is familiar.
i can't tell if i'm empty or sad;
i settle on sad, then louder: so sad.
hurt tastes like the inside of a cold glass.

they sent it in text, sweet and small,
and it grows teeth when no one is watching.
it eats at me in quiet rooms,
sits heavy under my ribs during lunch,
makes my throat clamp shut like a fist.

i imagine walking up to someone,
face flushed, hands shaking,
folding into arms that know how to hold—
but the way you asked the question,
sighed,
checked the clock like i was wasting your time.
that's the answer.
you don't know.

panic leaves and acceptance takes the chair—
a slow, steady knowing that this spiral is real.
i count the differences like currency:
crying every day, not cutting every day—
a scale that doesn't measure the depth of hurt.

false hope arrives in tiny lights:
your notification popped up, my heart leapt,
i thought maybe you'd come,
maybe you'd see.
instead i cried in a bathroom stall,
soft and furious,
because hope without you is a paper boat in a storm.

you don't see my bleeding as anything but a stain;
you make jokes while my insides are splitting.
you call me embarrassing like it's a diagnosis,
and not a wound.
like you can toss a word
and it will disappear under the rug.

if you knew how easy it is to relapse,
how a cold blade teaches me relief,
would you still say it?
would you?
i picture my scars in summer,
sleeves heavy with shame,
and wonder if you think that's a punchline.

i would have tried to understand your pain.
you target mine with the precision of someone bored.
i am angry—
no, not that pale anger from before—
this is raw,
this is the kind that aches and refuses to be fixed.

i'm hanging on by a thread;
it's not a metaphor i like to wear.
it's a taut wire under my feet.
i don't want to be avoidant,
but my choice is survival:
to look away so i don't crack in front of you.

i want someone who hears the shape of me,
who sits in the silence
without asking a thousand questions.
i want a hand that stays when i break down.
is that too much to ask?
i keep asking it anyway.

the word echoes.
embarrassing.
it rings in every quiet,
in every mirror.
it sits on my tongue like glass,
and i am learning to spit it out,
one small breath at a time.

A/N: i want to explain this, but i don't know the right way to. interpret this however you'd like, perhaps you can shape it to fit your own pain. this consists of a variety of emotions, really. anger, hurt, pain, and more anger. i'm so mad at you for not understanding my pain, and maybe that isn't fair to you— but you weren't fair to me either. maybe peace will prevail. maybe it won't. okay, let me just get off of here because i start crying again.

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