The Kind:
i know i'm the kind you hate.
the quiet one, with eyes like charred light bulbs,
and a voice so low even the walls need to reach out to take it in.
i'm still trying to make sense of the way my
fear hasn't collapsed with every visit.
reminding myself it was your wife, and not my mother who held me
the entire December night i was born doesn't really help these days.
my lungs still hold my heart like my mother would hold me
when i cried out from nightmares, every time i try to
draw up a list of things that could help me brave you.
it's odd. all my cousins seem to have grown out of it.
but last night i saw the cigarette ashes in the sink in your bathroom.
i could steal my first smoke, wash the ashes down the sink
and no one would even know.
just like no one in this house would ever know
of the way i bleed poems at the computer.
although even if they did,
that wouldn't make me something more in your eyes.
YOU ARE READING
aesthetic ✔
Poesiamy poems, give credit. PLEASE READ AT YOUR OWN RISK SUICIDE AND DEATH IS MENTIONED MULTIPLE TIMES. PLEASE SEEK HELP IF YOU ARE SUICIDAL, DEPRESSED, OR JUST OVERALL SAD. YOU ARE LOVED. •••••••••••••••••••••••...
