These years pass and I'm still broken.
I've tired my best and I've fought my hardest.
Yet the rain still pours on these empty windows.
I find over and over, my life, a story.
A book to be left on the dusty shelves of an abandoned library, only feeling the sun's rays on its very last day.
This book is nothing but a fairy tale, a story parent's tell their children when they feel alone in the dark.
It's a nightmare.
A black steed riding into the night with a mane of fire and a wish for death.
My wish for death.
Every day I stare at these walls, my mind screaming.
The headaches, the pain in my side is nothing but my brain telling me something is wrong but I can't see the marks on my skin.
I can't see the burns and the bruises left on my body given to me as a gift.
My own creation to be shrouded in mystery and shame.
Guilt is the only thing coursing through my veins, I can feel the fire inside me dying.
I'm drowning.
But I can't ask for help, I can't scream for the coast guard.
They're not listening.
They don't care.
My life line, my saviors.
Fighting their own battles, exorcising their own demons.
I cannot escape but neither can they.
How do I plug the holes in my ship?
How do I stop theirs from burning?
I can't, it's too much.
I'm suffocating.
How do I scream to help another when I can't even breath?
I'm sorry.
The charade, this masquerade.
Nothing but false hope.
I'm sorry.
YOU ARE READING
No Longer A Victim
PoetryFor a long time I was a victim of abuse from family and friends. And in some ways I still am, but I refuse to dwell on the past and instead look forward to the future. This is a collection of poems or short ramblings that I wrote in my time of darkn...
