My personal ideal.
My personal hell,
Personal torture,
Personal damnation,
My personal destruction.
You will end the bit of me that's left,
Rip and tare it apart like nothing,
Break me to pieces and use me as a jigsaw puzzle for your own amusement,
And I'll let you.
I'll let you hurt me,
Same as everyone else,
Because I don't know how to say no,
I don't know how to protect myself,
I don't know how to leave,
For I was never taught and never protected.
It hurts to see how others get to grow up safe and how others heal from their wounds,
I've been bandaging myself for so long i don't remember what my mother healing kiss was.
It hurts to see others use love as its intended purpose instead of an apology.
It feels like that damn word has never been uncondisional, they always want something.
I'm used to this pain,
It didn't go away,
It didn't lessen,
It didn't heal,
It just became normal.
A normal thing to feel.
The hole in your chest that aches,
The not in your throat from keeping words down,
The pain from hiding and slouching and stressing and worrying,
The pain every time someone looks my direction because of my own mind,
It all is the same.
I know this pain,
I used to call it my friend,
Now I call it me.
YOU ARE READING
Poems of a mended artist.
Poetrythis will be a part two to my other set of poems. please read them but they are not needed to understand these. These will be much sadder than my original ones usually.
