This is not about you

This is not about you.
This is not about about all those times you made me feel worthless and pathetic or how you spat my own name in my face like a curse.
This is not about how your betrayal ripped a giant gaping hole in my heart that I have not yet even begun to patch up. I can only keep ripping off the bandaid to remind myself of what it feels like to hurt.
And this is not about how your name will forever feel like acid on my tongue, burning the back of my throat as I try to smother the urge to scream it out into the night.

This is not about you.
This is about me.
This is about all the hurt and torment I have endured as I passively watched you set me on fire. This is about my struggle to love myself to fill the hole that you made, as you left me to fend for myself like a lonely and wounded animal.
This about how I will rise high above the flames and spread my hatred like wildfire, so that maybe one day, it might reach you.
This is about how I hope neither heaven or hell will take you, for you would surely be a disappointment to both.

So, no. This is not about you.
This is about me,
like it always has been.

A Letter To My Love

I love you.
I don’t know how else to phrase it.
Just the thought of you brings the biggest grin to my lips
I want you to be successful and happy and mentally stable and never have any significant worries or fears
I want you to have everything you have ever wanted even if what you want may seem unattainable at times
I want you to feel safe and loved and I want you to be able to trust, no matter how frightening and intimate it can be
But most of all, I want you to know that you are loved
Not just by me but by so many others
Because you matter
You are important
You are you
And that is more than enough.

Bleed

All I’ve ever known

Was how to bleed in ink

To tear my paper with my pen

And never stop to think

 

To rip apart my insides

And spill them on my page

Watching them form silent words

Of wisdom, hope, and rage

Worth It

Sometimes caring can be dangerous

A treacherous minefield full of broken hearts

That never seems to have an escape route

 

A gut-wrenching calamity of an inner struggle

That consumes your entire being

Until you are engulfed in agony

 

But perhaps it is better to hurt than to feel nothing at all

Perhaps  it is only beneficial to take great risks and gamble with your heart

In order to find the one thing that everyone spends their whole lives searching for:

Love.

All is Well in the End

You left me stranded on the edge of the world

And all I could do was jump

Landing head first on an earth

That was much more cushioned than I had expected

And suddenly everything was alright

 

 

Sunscreen

And when I think of you
I think of morning doves
Singing ballads in the a.m.
Soaring high above the treetops
On the street where you live

I think of you and I see cloudy skies
Dulled and gray and dismal
Warning me that there is rain to come

I think of you and I hear the bomb tick
Slowly and then faster
As I await the explosion of time
But the sun always made the burns worth it
It’s warm rays somewhat comforting

And when I think of you
I think of sunscreen

Withered, Battered, and Abandoned

Withered men used to dig the trenches,

their tired hands rough and worn down from labour’s past,

the soot under their fingernails forming something called modern art,

their faces besmirched with dirt leftover from the mines.

 

Battered women reached out in vain,

calling out for their loved ones to cease the hurt,

the destruction,

the pain,

mending their broken fingers

and patching up their wounds

as they licked themselves clean,

washing away the blood with their own salty tears.

 

Infants used to be born to absent mothers,

their hearts and minds unavailable,

their bodies farther gone,

hidden in cheap hotel rooms and dusty, studio apartments

dressed up in old furniture taken from the curb,

their edges cracking and splitting.

 

Time used to age gracefully,

but finesse has since become foreign territory,

its traces forever erased now that the clocks have stopped,

their hands ticking no more.

Solace can no longer be found.