call me unreasonable,
call me dementedly resentful,
but you left me in the corner of the music room that day
to pick up the pieces,
to fucking rot and for that i will never forget -
the ache of my blushing, bleeding red
fingers stroking scarlet-splattered black and white keys.
the maddening sound of my relentless tears twisting, devouring my
very being from breathing, hoping my shaky weeps wouldn't wake
those sleeping outside.
and the traumatising thoughts that consumed me at night that
the very people who were supposed to believe in me
shut me out like dirt.
so enjoy your throne of glory, your bed of lies.
savour the metallic taste of the gods as no matter what
my heart will remain unwon.
( ii. a poem of the past, a thought of the present )
