I don't know why my heart
keeps circling back
to the hands that once let it fall.
Why I keep showing up
for people who never showed up for me-
like loyalty stitched too deep
to pull out without bleeding.
It feels automatic now:
you hurt me, I remember;
you see me for a second,
I forget.
One warm word,
one soft glance,
and suddenly I'm running back,
folding myself into the same arms
that trembled and dropped me before.
Maybe it's because affection
has always been a drought with no rain,
and when someone offers a single drop,
I drink it like it's a blessing-
even when it tastes of salt,
even when I should know better.
They call it kindness,
say it's love,
say it's my gentle heart.
But standing here,
throat burning,
heart bruised from hope-
I see it clearly.
It's not love.
It's longing.
It's hunger.
It's me mistaking scraps for safety.
Maybe it looks like compassion,
but it feels like drowning-
and I think
I've been calling
self-sabotage
by sweeter names.
YOU ARE READING
Trapped in my own head
PoetryShe is an outcast. She finds it easier to express what she feels in the form of writing. Whether it is poems, letters or long texts. These are poems that she writes trying to describe how it feels to live with certain mental health issues, in a worl...
