he ripped the words from my throat
he locked them away
in a box that he calls a 'coffin'
he dug a pit
and buried them six-feet-under
next to the
grave where my innocence lay

Some people
will have you believe
that damage can be beautiful,
and it's true
that you can find
the sunlight through the clouds.
But my trauma is not pretty.
It is an ugly bruise
that everyone thinks is okay
to poke at,
and watch the black and blue
attempt to change colours
when it heals.
There is no beauty
in crying alone at 3am,
spilling alcohol down your shirt
at a party you're only attending
to drown your issues in,
swallowing tiny little pills
to feel somewhat okay,
avoiding any comfort
because you feel you deserve less.
It is a lonely place to be,
stuck in a broken mind
with one-way windows.
I can romanticise my pain
as much as i want,
but it will always be
a toxic relationship
i have with myself.
And it is not beautiful.

A broken light bulb.
A shattered dream.
A life wasted.
It's not what it seems.

A broken family.
Stressed and tired.
Chance after chance.
Will it ever expire?

Perpetual forgiveness.
Is it worth it?
The tears, the screams.
We are hypocrites.

Shaming you for breaking the bulb.
Yet, we cut ourselves trying to fix it.