***
He brought me pain,
over me, he reigned.
My hurt, always remained,
as I slowly grew insane.
The only thing left in suede,
darkness,
inside my brain.
My pride,
my just,
my truth,
my vain.
All lost,
all gone.
Only a side effect of the pain.
As I lay in bed,
alone,
my hope but a thread.
My thoughts filled with dread,
they've grown,
the crass theories remain,
in my head.
Never to leave him, he always pled.
But he never cared, bruised me more,
instead.
Even when my wrists bled,
my skin stained red.
And all hope fled.
After too many tears were shed,
in my heart,
he is now dead.
Why, to remain left unsaid,
unspoken,
and ignored.
But he left,
me, with no heart,
all torn apart,
but a shred,
that he yet kept.
This is where love always led.
My feelings inept,
too depressed as I wept,
my dignity swept,
leaving my heart to accept;
he was gone,
yet I would forever long,
in his arms to be wrapped,
as we slept,
as I was kept trapped.
In my heart,
I always knew,
I deserved to get bruised,
I deserved to be beat,
I deserved to get slapped.
And without him, I napped,
my eyes closed,
along with my heart.
Maybe letting him leave was hard, but at least,
it was smart.
***
I wrote this and I'm thinking stockholm syndrome.
***
11/10/16
YOU ARE READING
The Scars On Our Skin
PoetryCrap poems by a crappier person. They paint a pretty picture, but the story has a twist; the paintbrush is a razor, and the canvas is their wrist. Highest Rank; #48 in Poetry Graphics by; @deeplyenchanted
