At the time,
I thought that pain was permanent.
But I’m glad to tell you,
the slap of your betrayal
has not
even left
a
mark.

I’m miserable.
My lack of talent
are the chains in which I am restrained by.
Oh how I wish I could convey my thoughts,
in prose,
by the use of simple poetry.
But my phrases are jagged,
motifs inarticulate,
ideas jumbled.
How can I understand myself,
when my fingers don’t understand my mind?