I am so stuck.
This pit of emptiness absorbs me.
My shoulders circle uncomfortably.
My grip tightens.
I pull my hair to try to find grounding.
I hyperventilate until I am on the brink of death.
My fingers run down my thighs,
smooth to rough to smooth.
My cuts smile back at me proud.
Another cut, another day I fought to stay alive.
The desire to scream.
The feeling of it not being okay, never forgiving myself.
I never fought back, didn’t yell for him to stop.
My passive anger remains bottled.
My eyes lit up in the dark,
only turning the light on to leave my own marks.
As if a cut will remove all the hate in my body
suck the venom from my veins.
But my brain manufactures every pain,
sending tears down my face
and keeping me stuck in this place.
As my soul continues to rot to nothing:
nothing more than a dead body buried 6 feet under,
nothing more than ashes sprinkled in the air.
My death spreading more and more despair.
And when my he whispers to me,
calling upon my ghostly presence:
“I loved you and I cared
and baby I was always there.”
I will say “I’m sorry,
but your love couldn’t fix me.”
He always told me he loved me.
The word “love” seeping through my damaged heart,
reminding me of how broken I was each time I fell apart in his arms.