As I sit here and wonder, "what did I do wrong?",
I hold back the words in my throat that I held for so long.
And I turn over the page in my mind where you once were,
To something that I wrote down, of the words you never heard.
I was your 'only one'; your 'soulmate'; you 'wife'.
Until you slit my trusts and heart with a dull knife.
And I bled for days, days since you hurt me dear,
Even though everything, one year later, is still unclear.
I know I don't love you, even though it was questioned some days,
And now I'm left here, still bleeding and so afraid, of the mess, the big ******* mess that you made.
I don't want you back, nor do I need you here.
But sometimes, I wish the storm would clear.
And all the insecurities I once held close would go away,
And all the hurt I hold in my heart would go astray.
I normally don't feel this incomplete, over a simple mess;
I normally pick myself up, and be filled with forgiveness.
But this time, as I turn that page in my mind,
I rip out the page of you and me, and put it aside.
And I pull out a red match, and drench the page with gasoline,
And burn those sweet memories, along with the words I will never speak.
Jul 11, 2013
Jul 11, 2013 at 1:41 PM UTC
As I sit here and wonder, "what did I do wrong?",
I hold back the words in my throat that I held for so long.
And I turn over the page in my mind where you once were,
To something that I wrote down, of the words you never heard.
I was your 'only one'; your 'soulmate'; you 'wife'.
Until you slit my trusts and heart with a dull knife.
And I bled for days, days since you hurt me dear,
Even though everything, one year later, is still unclear.
I know I don't love you, even though it was questioned some days,
And now I'm left here, still bleeding and so afraid, of the mess, the big ******* mess that you made.
I don't want you back, nor do I need you here.
But sometimes, I wish the storm would clear.
And all the insecurities I once held close would go away,
And all the hurt I hold in my heart would go astray.
I normally don't feel this incomplete, over a simple mess;
I normally pick myself up, and be filled with forgiveness.
But this time, as I turn that page in my mind,
I rip out the page of you and me, and put it aside.
And I pull out a red match, and drench the page with gasoline,
And burn those sweet memories, along with the words I will never speak.
