When did it start, I wonder.
When did the black form in my stomach, in my soul?
Was I born with hatred in my bones?
Why am I the one unable to sheathe the darkness? They all grip the cool metal, but the knife’s edge was sharper for me.
I slip and fall and cut myself on the pleasurable blade of self-disgust over and over, unable to catch myself I grasp blindly into the darkness, reaching for the familiar shapes I’ve always known.
But they all are finding their own balance, ignorant of how I lost mine.
I hate yellow.
Jan 14, 2019
Jan 14, 2019 at 3:54 PM UTC
When did it start, I wonder.
When did the black form in my stomach, in my soul?
Was I born with hatred in my bones?
Why am I the one unable to sheathe the darkness? They all grip the cool metal, but the knife’s edge was sharper for me.
I slip and fall and cut myself on the pleasurable blade of self-disgust over and over, unable to catch myself I grasp blindly into the darkness, reaching for the familiar shapes I’ve always known.
But they all are finding their own balance, ignorant of how I lost mine.
I hate yellow.
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