Mar 2015
"You deserve every piece of happiness you get” You tell me sincerely, still refusing to see me struggle, silently trying to hold onto reasons to persevere, with *****, broken fingernails that have scraped the surface of too many fears. I do not give you permission to grant me that kind of solicitous when you don’t even know yourself what I deserve, you don’t get to tell me you want me to be happy when you’re doing nothing about this fiery pit of hatred I’ve placed myself in.
You’re stood on the other side of the flames, telling me you would do anything to help me survive, whilst you’ve saved all the water for yourself, and bathed in the thought you truly are reassuring me.
To put your mind at ease.
You don’t get to say that when you’re not trying to re-build my withered bones, or conceal the vulnerable parts of me I haven’t cared to engage.
You’re not trying to make me feel comfortable in the only place thats drowning me, but I can’t escape, and you’re not trying to help me find route, or make a plan.
I don’t deserve this happiness you’re saying I deserve. I deserve no less than the lines of ruby tears I slowly savour with every blade in my restless soul, on my skin of fragile paper. I deserve no less than the held back cries of frustration and anguish that I strain so hard to stop the hurt. Not only the hurt in my heart, but the hurt in my chest, the sharp pain that digs into my lethal organs. The hurt in my throat where I’ve tried so hard to swallow the lump of seething hatred I refrain from spitting out with the rest of my pessimism and indignation. The hurt in my temples as the pounding of my beating heart gets to the point of a thumping rhythm I’m slowly beginning to flow with inside my rattling skull. The hurt in every inch of my weakening body as I curl over with raw shame and resentment towards myself, with no control over the way my body endures to cope in these times where I can think of nothing but taking that blade to the only vein left that screams for help, as it struggles to pump my favourite taste and smell around the rest of my failing body. you don’t tell me to be happy, because I can’t even remember what that infamous word means.
You’re stood on the other side of the flames, telling me you would do anything to help me survive, whilst you’ve saved all the water for yourself, and bathed in the thought you truly are reassuring me.
To put your mind at ease.
You don’t get to say that when you’re not trying to re-build my withered bones, or conceal the vulnerable parts of me I haven’t cared to engage.
You’re not trying to make me feel comfortable in the only place thats drowning me, but I can’t escape, and you’re not trying to help me find route, or make a plan.
I don’t deserve this happiness you’re saying I deserve. I deserve no less than the lines of ruby tears I slowly savour with every blade in my restless soul, on my skin of fragile paper. I deserve no less than the held back cries of frustration and anguish that I strain so hard to stop the hurt. Not only the hurt in my heart, but the hurt in my chest, the sharp pain that digs into my lethal organs. The hurt in my throat where I’ve tried so hard to swallow the lump of seething hatred I refrain from spitting out with the rest of my pessimism and indignation. The hurt in my temples as the pounding of my beating heart gets to the point of a thumping rhythm I’m slowly beginning to flow with inside my rattling skull. The hurt in every inch of my weakening body as I curl over with raw shame and resentment towards myself, with no control over the way my body endures to cope in these times where I can think of nothing but taking that blade to the only vein left that screams for help, as it struggles to pump my favourite taste and smell around the rest of my failing body. you don’t tell me to be happy, because I can’t even remember what that infamous word means.
2:26am
