Every Last Drop

By ifthisbetreason

5K 276 133

for hard times. for the lonely late nights. and the tears we cry. every last drop. * all rights reserved More

Introduction
Paradox
The Fog in My Mind
Library
The Liar and the Girl who Stayed
Drowning Together
Self-Sabotage
Confiding in the Con Man
Raspberry Tea
:(
The Outcast
Bitter
Coffee Shop
Brain Undone
Hey, bro, long time no see
Speak in Riddles
Counting Quarters
Hint of Perfection
Gasoline
Crime Unpunished
Starless Sky
Spinning like a Top
Whirlwind
Your Shame
Dystopian Story
Apathy Among Beasts
Graveyard Questions
Gaslighting
Death of Yesterday
Not Who She Once Was
A Spoonfull of Happiness
Window Watching
Secret
The One They'll Blame
Trust No One
Purposeful Insomnia
I Will Forget You
Old Battlegrounds
Running Away
Holding on to Hate
A Letter from the Future

Your Balled Fist

102 12 9
By ifthisbetreason

Smaller.
More compact.
Hunched over.
Crumpled.
Not intact.
Broken
submissive slave.


Quiet I stood as you went about your day.
I would cry in front of you after a verbal lashing.
You comforted a pet over me,
the dog who whimpered in his sleep.
Same room, face-to-face.
Somehow I'm always in last place,
yet first to bear the blame.
Less than a dog,
but also the cause
of all of your flaws.


Funny how that works, right?
Sometimes I think I only survived out of spite.
The blank look in your eyes—
I know nothing registers up there.
Don't bother pretending to care,
flashing your expertly crafted smile
at all who you deem worthwhile.


It didn't happen all at once.
If I'd known the bars were coming, I'd have run,
but there was no chorus of screams or horrendous thump.
It was the crumple of paper in your balled fist.
Tighter, tighter, with each setting of the sun.
Fingers enclosing and light growing dim.
I was cracked like a glow stick,
always putty in your hands,
to transfer the stress from your body into mine.


Grunting, pushing, breaking free.
You will not be the end of me.
I'm lifting myself out from underneath your thumb.
I know your weakness.
You have only one:
Control.
It's your Golden Calf.
You were promised the last laugh,
led astray by your delusions.
When your gaudy temple crumbles—
when Control, your muse and lover,
finally is humbled,
you will have no one left, no throne.
Your actions are your own.
Each failed promise to change rests on your shoulders and yours alone.
Now I have the whole world to roam,
because I've stopped bowing to your idol.
I've revoked your title.
I own myself once more.

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