I sit in my dark corner,
weeping out my heart.
The numbness wants to take me;
it’s hands grip like ice.
A bit more than sometimes
I wonder who I am,
who I know,
and if what I know is real.
Because sometimes,
or a little bit more,
the lines of heartfelt truth and bitter lies
are unrecognizably blurred.
They can’t seem to understand
who I am at all.
Why I do and say certain things
and why I leave out others.
But they should know.
They should understand
that not everyone is alike.
Not everyone thinks the same.
But of course they don’t know
why I am me
and not anything like
them.
What they’re doing to me
has its own sad tale.
It traps me in the sands of pain,
of fruitless suffering.
It traps me in a desert
that I cannot escape,
binding and twisting me,
throwing me into the sand storm,
where I am in darkness,
slowly suffocating in
my own life.
In my own mind.
Why can’t they see?
Why can’t they understand
that every time he yells,
every time she threatens,
they kill a part of me.
Ripping my soul into
tiny little pieces to be devoured
for their own selfish reasons.
But I can’t tell them that
they’re turning me into a shell,
devoid of personal cares.
For I am their loved one,
as they are mine,
and hurting them is
not an option and
never will be.
So I have my secret,
my lovely little secret,
that will never see the light of day.
For when it does, I shall be gone.