Untitled
A Poem
I’m sick and tired of hurting,
and having a heart
that is aching
and burning
from the inside
and out.
I’m tired of the restless nights
and the dreams that
keep me with one eye open
and one eye shut.
I’m exhausted from thinking
of ways
I can get over the amount
of pain
you’ve put me through.
But every single time I do this,
I find myself spiraling
and wondering
about all those lies and possibilities
you told me
not that long ago.
But now it’s all ancient history.
No matter what I do that anger
it boils inside me
like a kettle waiting to explode,
like a grenade waiting to cause
havoc in the desert
and like a storm
on a tropical beach,
waiting to create destructive waves
that could ruin the land.
I think of what could’ve been and
what really happened.
You don’t deserve to know the hurt
you put me through.
You don’t deserve to know about
the morning, afternoon and late-night
sickness I felt,
or the doctor's appointments and
constant overthinking.
You don’t deserve to know
how I planned a list of names
in the back of a notebook
or how I planned
to save up for a bigger apartment.
You don’t deserve to have the ability to
gain the sympathy I have
yet to feel from people,
all because you suddenly
feel the need
to play the victim,
despite being the villain
all along.
Like a wolf in sheep’s clothing,
you fooled me and those
who trusted you.
You’ve fooled her and continue to
do so,
all until these secrets unleash
from the cages
and from the depths
of these oceans,
to emerge on these surfaces
and for them to be discovered
by those who wronged me.
But deep down in these oceans,
and in these storms and
in these grenades,
I know this won’t change a thing.
Out of the damage you’ve caused me,
I’ve built castles from the rubble
that you’ve left behind.
I’ve constructed a home
for myself
and for the person
with the combination of both of us.
But those rooms remain empty and dark
like the void it’s left behind,
in these halls
I decorate with
miscellaneous and misplaced
momentoes I wish to delete and remove
from my life.
Yet I cling to just in case
I ever need reminding
of what created me to be
the way that I am.
