pain, i've noticed, tends to be
universally accepted so long as
you have molded it into something
resembling beauty - otherwise,
we like to pretend it's not there.
you're willing to listen and sympathize
and comfort me if i turn my tears into
tapestries and my heartbreak into
something melancholy and poetic and
unrealistically beautiful, but if i were to
present it to you as the gut-wrenching,
tear-jerking, consuming tragedy it
truly exists in, you'd recoil from my words.
i long for somebody to understand the
inner turmoil that has swallowed my
mind whole, but my heart and lungs
and soul are too tired, too frail,
too poisoned,
to turn it into something you'd be
willing to listen to. so instead i
sit and suffer in silence
because i know you wouldn't
want to hear what i have to say.
