I sprinkled pixie dust on my wounds.
And fell asleep on the hard concrete.
This has become my reality.
Sleeping night after night,
Beside a stranger.
I had become a pro at pretending to be dumb.
I pretend to not see her on your collar,
Or smell her stains on your finger,
Or watch her dancing in your memory through the windows of your eyes.
I had learned to find comfort in your lies.
You know I know,
I know you know I know,
I think you somehow hate me more,
Because I take it in silence.
I cry in the shower,
But I think you hear me.
I shiver in your embrace,
I think you feel me,
I think you know,
That my insides tremble at the thought,
That tonight might be the night you don't come home.
I sometimes wonder,
What she has that I don't.
And its natural to feel a mixture,
Of awe,
Of hurt,
Of respect,
For the woman who keeps your man happy.
And feeds him before she sends him home.
She isn't showy,
And never texts you or call,
When you're at home.
I'd like to think she understands.
That the only thing holding me together.
Is the ability to pretend like I can't see the little signs.
At least she isn't bold.
This is my kingdom,
My sanctuary.
This fragile world of pretend,
Made with silk webs of self made lies.
I walk the concrete streets at nights,
Scouring my memory drive,
Trying to find the moment it began to fall apart.
I sleep among the dying petals in my marriage bed.
Trying to hold on to the first night.
Oh how in love we were...
Love has become a myth for us.
Now we sit in strained silence.
Just a meagre five years,
And we've already used up all the words to say.
All the things to ask.
Our garden of love has withered.
You don't bring me flowers anymore.
I pretend to not know why.
No daisies of trust.
No tulips of truth.
No lilies of love.
No roses of passion.
Just poison ivies of lies.
And weeds of silence.
That choke me,
And suck the life from our garden.
This garden,
With soils made from our vows.
Is barren now.
And I suppose I should hold on,
To the rest of my dignity.
And walk away while I have the chance.
Stop watering this place with my tears.
And stop giving this place my life.
If anyone asks,
We'll just tell them our garden died.
YOU ARE READING
EPIPHANY
Poetry"I'm desperately trying to heal myself." •. •. •. •. •. I strongly believe art isn't supposed to be pretty, or liked and understood by the masses. Art is supposed to make you unco...
