I guess I'm getting exactly what I deserve. Every guilt trip I have ever conducted is throwing itself back at me. Every pang of regret I've ever caused. Every spark of rage.
I became so cold that I started to burn those around me.
Frost bitten limbs and a charcoal heart. I crack away at every slight breeze - a piece of me falling victim to a game similar to my own.
I will forever hate the way they looked at me. I saw their hearts break in their eyes. I saw their souls shatter and harden up just as quickly. There was just enough time in the switch to throw in a tincture of culpability.
To let a dove fly after nurture is to fracture a heart, but to cage in a cobra is suicide for the next time that confinement opens.
She raised a black mamba - carved a dagger from obsidian and praised it like it was the last thing she'd do on Earth. She created chaos in the cradle of her arms. Yet was appalled when it fought back the walls pushing in. Yet was horrified when it broke her chains.
Manipulation isn't a native language found after centuries of digging. Manipulation is the curse on a spite fire tongue that craves control. Manipulation is the peroxide doused on a wound - claiming healing capabilities. A noose bound together of trauma after trauma.
We fight back with the same foundation of our being getting absolutely nowhere but tears and guilt trips.
She doesn't realize she's stripping the last thread that's linking us together.
YOU ARE READING
The Swallows and the Sunsets
PoetryI tend to find meanings in things not intended to have one.
