They taught us to cry into our pillows, to swallow the tears like pills and choke on the feathers that we used to patch up the holes where we leaked because even the pillows couldn't absorb all the tears-and we all bled through the wood floors as we vomited up the lies that had become our intoxicating poison because those broken have a knack for self-destruction.
They taught us to scream in silence until our voices ran hoarse and to starve the skin off our bones, because each layer of skin was a sewed up reminder of the pain and the hurt and the sin-and it's easier to burn the pages than to erase the mistakes and fix them.
They taught us how to reach out when in isolation, but to reach out only as far as our sick minds could go, which was never further than the comforter we all collapsed beneath, because even a lightweight blanket was too much to bear-and the darkness was our lantern that led us to sink deeper within our own mad rabbit holes-sick with pain and mad with desire as we tumbled down holes to the sick invitations of the broken marionettes we all played with and broke as children.
They all taught us to bandage our wounds, but only the wounds we found to be accidentally plastered upon our bodies-not the ones we purposefully tattooed on our bodies for all of them to see as the blood seeped from the crevices and the darkness collected in the cracks like pus and poison and pestilence as we whispered through the wounds
We are not okay.
They taught us all the right ways to feel pain, but forgot to mention that it would never end. No matter how many tears we cried, how many veins we bled dry, how many bones we starved, how many pills we popped & how far we reached out-there was nothing to dry our tears. Nothing to patch up the veins. Nothing to force meat on the bones. Nothing reaching back.
They taught us all the right ways to feel pain, but never did they teach us how to escape. We were just too talented, and they didn't want to mess with that, didn't you hear?
Because fuck-our greatest talent was always self destruction.
•3:21am
YOU ARE READING
Midnight Musings
PoetryMy thoughts are most awake at night. Some of them are worth sharing. Most aren't. So here they are. My Midnight Musings.
