i can't find the words to say what he's done to me;
nothing can describe the poison running through my bloodstream,
the venom he gave me.
i could write and rewrite
to the end of the universe.
it would never come out.
i thought i abandoned it
when i tore down the walls that kept me in. when i smashed the glass that had long been smudged,
that kept me from seeing beyond him.
but he's still here,
in whispers.
destroying me in any way he can.
finding ways to keep me in,
masquerading in a broken heart.
the words are at the tip of everyone's tongue,
when i tell the story.
we all know what he did to me.
we all know it has a name.
but i am still gagged,
he still has a hand clamped over my bleeding mouth.
despite stepping out of that glass box,
whispers of him still find their way to my lungs,
letting them shrivel,
rot.
the words will never come out.
not when his whispers can still find me.
YOU ARE READING
metanoia
PoetryM E T A N O I A (n.) : the journey of changing one's mind, heart, self, or way of life this is my first poetry book, and because this book is not completed yet they are very unorganized. when i'm finished the book will be rearranged. all poetry is...
