I feel lovely,
featherlight,
no worries.

No, that's not
quite right.
That's not at all how
I feel.
I feel like I've hit
rock bottom,
my chest chained
to a wrecking ball.

In my home,
I fight alone.

Alone protects me,
I have naught to fear,
for someone will not hurt me
if I remain alone.

I won't forget what we did together,
nothing scandalous,
but always breaking the rules
in good fun.
And even though I may never see you again,
I'll cherish those moments
forever.

I write to dissipate
my frustrations,
my sorrow,
my hurt.
In every little poem,
there is a message
that only a certain someone
could decipher.

I don't want to be the one to say it,
but I can't help but be angry;
I am to do what I am expected to do,
and yet
everyone else's errands are so minimal.
I can't help but be disappointed;
when you don't think of how
you not doing something
could be consequential for me.
I can't help but be frustrated;
that you keep saying you will make a change
but another day goes by,
and you still haven't done anything.