you know what
sorrow
looks like.
you can recognize
its scent from miles away,
its influence on people's faces,
its touch on the arms of others.
and so,
when the heavens
— the same damn heavens
that loathes your existence —
poured him
a glass,
you knew what it was
filled with:
poison.
being the tragic hero you are,
you took the cup
away from his lips
and drank the
poison
yourself.
you laced your
blood with the poison
of grief, misery, and sorrow ;
as long as he is not,
you say to me,
as long as he is not poisoned,
you are
okay.
you will continue to
drink their poisoned cups ;
you will drink each cup,
never knowing which sip
might be your
last.
but you are okay,
you tell me.
you just do not want
more blood on your hands.
and so, you are
okay.
you are not okay
with death,
unless it is
yours.
YOU ARE READING
Tears For You
Poetry❝ i wished i had said that it was okay to cry, but instead i cried tears for you. ❞
