petulant child

the tantrum of a child who learned big words before learning no i want the world to kneel and when it does not i kick god in the shins then cry about the bruises there is a wound in me but it is not the kind that closes it is rot with a pulse convincing i say i am unhealable because healing would mean i was wrong about myself and i cannot survive another correction i leave fingerprints on people that never wash off i call them accidents they call them endings behind me a museum of scorched bridges each one labeled i tried i meant well i was hurting i was hurting is a blade i keep using because it fits my hand there is blood yes not cinematic not noble just dark proof that my feelings have weight i sentence myself nightly i am judge jury evidence self hatred my only honest god it never lies to me it only tells me what i am afraid is true that i am not broken glass or a wounded animal but the hand that threw and the mouth that justified and still somewhere under the ooze there is a child holding the knife by the blade wondering why everything hurts

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jack-jenkins

30 / M

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