The steps I take away from you seem deeper than the shallow ones towards you.
I’ve almost lost my senses as I resided beside you, becoming one with the chair
Controlled and made to feel a certain type of way only to be neglected whenever my use was no longer needed
Disposable
I was always disposable
And what does that say of the way I love?
That it is not an ocean that hugs its shores, but one that chews and spits out remnants
I can’t seem to recall the memories of when I was anything, but broken
I have melded into the shards and at time’s, when I move, they stab and wound me from inside out.
My skin has been marked by red patches and in some artistic, poetic way, you may say that these patches are the marks of a warrior, but I say they’re marks of a fighter who longer has enough fight in her
If I decide to give up, would they all yell out in objection,
Or help me get there faster?