scripturient

Empty

24  June 2019

"I hate you".
The words
fall off your tongue,
razor blades
digging into the skin
on the softest parts
of my wrists.

A sudden influx
of self hatred-
a tidal wave
of self-loathing-
tucks itself into my stomach,
kicking and screaming,
begging for attention.

I turn into the bathroom
and empty the contents
of my bruised stomach
into the toilet,
shaking fingers
gripping the lid tightly.

I wipe my mouth and say,
"I hate you, too."
My lips move on their own,
forming the words for me,
spitting venom,
hoping to burn away your cruelness,
hoping to melt the flesh and bone and armour
protecting your heart,
expose the love I hope you still have for me.

We both know
that I'm lying-
to you, to myself-
hiding amongst the shatters
of a broken relationship,
trying to keep a mask of indifference.

I could never hate you-
and despite it all,
I don't think
I ever truly did.

Sometimes,
the broken bones
and the bruised skin
seems a lot more inviting
than the empty bed
and the empty heart.