Poetic failure

three: the burn

It hurt to touch and yet I kept doing so. I kept digging my hand into my chest and tracing the outlines of cuts that littered the barely beating piece of flesh.

I'm alive. I'm breathing. I'm existing. And yet it doesn't feel as if I'm doing any of those things.

My life is perfect right? Because obviously you would know that, you would know how many tears appear in my eyes late at night and early in the sleepless mornings. Because you know fucking everything.

They assume you're fine, you're great, amazing, happy even. Yes they assume those things even if they know the truth. No one really wants to get their hands dirty and hold your sobbing body every night because God knows that it isn't a "one off thing".

No, they want you to smile back at them and tell them how great your day has been. But not to go into to much detail because they have busy life's far to busy for your true feelings or you.

So smile, I will, I will go along with what you want because I know what happens when you don't play the role you have been set. Do you remember, do you at all remember me telling you how much it hurts. How my head burns with venomous thoughts and I'm repulsed by myself.

Of course not, they're my problems not yours. "I need therapy" I said and you assumed. yes again . You assumed I was fine that I have nothing wrong with me.

"Why would you want therapy"
oh darling you never listen, I didn't say want I said need.

Quite the difference really.

So here I lie with my whole body burning in my bed. I clutch my heart in both hands staring silently at the ceiling. Now you see. now you choose to see me. While I'm lying lifeless on my bed.

Well good job.
now I've passed the burn on to you.

___________________________________

Once again I'm baffled by the bullshit I manage to write.

Anyway on a more serious note I think my house is haunted please  pray for my soul.

Peace out hoes
-🌱

I would fuck Dean Martin
Like yes please daddy👅