I am used to
the folds of the fire
burning hot on my skin,
the light it gives
a mockery of the darkness
I surround myself in.
I am used to
covering myself up
in the tidal waves of my sadness-
these tsunamis are my solace,
the way I drown is my comfort.
I am used to
how it feels like
being alone and sad and alone and sad;
these two words so simple,
so relatable
but not by you.
You are not used to
the black holes that form your sanctuary,
as much four walls as any room is
stars are not distant pinpricks
you restrain yourself from reaching for.
You are not used to.
Aug 11, 2014
Aug 11, 2014 at 8:06 AM UTC
I am used to
the folds of the fire
burning hot on my skin,
the light it gives
a mockery of the darkness
I surround myself in.
I am used to
covering myself up
in the tidal waves of my sadness-
these tsunamis are my solace,
the way I drown is my comfort.
I am used to
how it feels like
being alone and sad and alone and sad;
these two words so simple,
so relatable
but not by you.
You are not used to
the black holes that form your sanctuary,
as much four walls as any room is
stars are not distant pinpricks
you restrain yourself from reaching for.
You are not used to.
Request permission to use this poem