Is hurts to see the past,
Being so ugly bitter in the present.
I panic about the future,
Left in a stagnant worry.

I find it hard to vocalise jealousy,
As I feel guilty it being part of me.
But can you really blame me,
Seeing you be loved before me.

I don't look like any of these women,
I appear differently in every way.
I internally panic and worry,
That you want something I'm not.

Why do you keep ahold of the past,
The memories, notes and valentine's.
By holding onto your used-to-bes,
I feel weak to my knees.

I saw it, but I wish I didn't,
Because now my insecurity thrives.
Like a venomous snake poisoning,
These thoughts come back to haunt again.

I can't feel the same,
You came and forced your hate
Down my throat,
In my face.

I can't feel the same,
You want me to suffer,
So clearly and obviously,
While glorifying yourself as a deity.

I can't feel the same,
With years of regret and selfhate,
Being reopened and wounded,
Repeatedly again and again.

I can't feel the same,
When you stripped me of safety,
Security, love and peace.
You preach what you hate.

I can't feel the same,
I will never feel that way.
You've shattered my glass inner,
With a lack of mercy or empathy.

She can't feel the same,
Yet you'd use that as a way,
To justify your pain and hurting me
Just the same.

And I feel sad or lost or hurt,
I tried to capture it like it's a painting,
then I wonder why it never works,
because it is impossible to ever make it work.

In order to make something,
you have to grab supplies from anywhere,
but I am chuffed and I am choked,
the strings they keep me bound here in my heart.

No matter what I do it will be dismissed,
no matter what I say it will be ignored,
unless it's too late and they have to listen,
so until they have to listen - I may as well be quiet.

The amount of objectification, sexism and racism,
it's all like a merry-go-round, a carousel,
it's never-ending, it's never-ending,
and it ***** that it's never-ending.

Because, it doesn't need to be never-ending.

It hurts to hear it though,
the amount of people who just assume so.
I guess they would with the way I display,
you'd think I wasn't one, anyway.

But I'm not, and I know that,
I think I've always known that,
in my heart something didn't feel right,
and yet here I am treating my body like a canvas.

But I'm more like a notebook.

I hope I can empty the notebook.

I feel like a machine, and yet I'm not immortalised,
a machine might stay the same forever,
maybe my files will corrupt,
maybe my memory will be wiped.

But there are some that don't,
but there are some that last.

I won't immortalise anything, will I?

I always had a hope, a sense of relief,
a moment of comfort and content by simply being me,
but I've been led to believe, that I am not good enough,
but if I lead to believe, maybe one day I would've been enough.

We shouldn't find the irrational a dismissive thing,
we should find it inspiring to think in a delusional state,
while everyone is stuck and believing what is real is static,
how can we move on when everything stays the same?

Time changes whether we like it or not, and yet,
here I become quiet and timid because I know deep down,
I too, can not say,
a single thing.

I am frustrated that I am the same as everyone else,
in how I act, but I bet deep down, there is this little voice,
tugging away at every single one of them,
whether good, or bad - or maybe in-between.

There are some that exist, who believe in good - are bad,
it costs too much, to watch the collapse of the world,
I had wished, dreamed, prayed and weep, dread and begged,
that one day someone else will hear my words and tell me...

That I was wrong in the best of ways.