My dreadful poem
I just want to write about what I think love feels like and what I know sadness feels like. I want to write about anger that leaves welts in my scalp and hair in my fingers that shake and tremble and I want to write about my grief that swallowed me whole many years ago and how its eaten all my insides and just left a rot of nothingness. I want to write about my hope that survived the war, survived the trauma in the snapped strings of my heart, and how it bloomed like a flower and said to my aching darkness be good, be kind. But it's always wilting, never bright like they say it is, always on its deathbed and I feel like a single breath will kill it, so I try not to breathe when the ache festers like darkness and skitters across my brittle bones like spiders. I am waiting for the end, not mine but yes mine but the end of the world. I'm waiting for the moon to fall into the ocean my mother wanted to live by, for angels to turn to God and say you're not my father, for the sun to grow cold. I'm waiting, and boy does it feel like I've lived a million lives, though I've only ever seen the world through these eyes, these heavy eyes that don't belong to this teenage body. Five days before my mother's funeral, I held a kitchen knife to my throat and I almost did it, almost buckled beneath the weariness of my soul that begs and trembles for freedom like a bull trapped in a cage. It still does, beating and writhing and sometimes I can hear it screaming for release. I stopped not because I feared the pain, for there is no pain like someone ripping the hope from your chest and then breaking your heart like its nothing more than a china cup. Neither was it fear of what is beyond this, and there are days were I think I would take any type of Hell over this war-stained and greed-fisted Earth. No, my fear was spreading that pain, that unholy grief, to the ones I hold close. To my friends who took the role, unaware, as my family. Yes, blood is thicker than water but water is a lot more healthier for you. So, I will always be a lost soul, drifting between life and existing, because the two are very different, and just trying to find something to keep my hope blooming. My Hope is dying, I wish I was.
