When I speak
Nobody hears my voice
But when I scream
I am a monster
'cause I created a noise

These roaming thoughts
Keep crashing in my head
Forcing me to remember
How lonely it felt
To be with you
How you pushed me aside
To love on another.
I asked,
Wondered,
Begged
For a future with you.
But it seems that I’m not worthy
Of such hope.
My loneliness will consume
My fleeting happiness
I will always feel neglected

You hide the truth.
Everything you say to me
feels like glue.
I get stuck in it
and don't know what to do...
I always end up finding out the truth,
just not from you.

the forgotten child is nearing the end of their adolescence.
these thoughts have swam inside them for a decade
rumbling, roaring, ramming against their barricade
it was not me that was forgotten, but the naïve child inside me
i've spent a decade reserving my right to tell the awaited rescuer
that the child and i prefer to stay at our safe haven.

i am a body of 22, but a mind of 12
naïve 12 turned pitiful, pessimistic 14 turned people-pleaser 17
turned naive 18 turned pitiful, pessimistic 20 turned
please just come back, why did you never come back

i'll never stop wondering why i had to create my own safe haven
i've spent a decade reserving my right to turn away my wrongdoer
it's silly of me to think that you returning makes you a rescuer
nature versus nurture, a baby bird kicked from the comfy nest
a decade-long vacation from being a parent, abandoned until i grew
the forgotten child is nearing the end of their adolescence.

A cold abrasion
Numbing as quickly
As the words outpouring
Making raw a mind
Knowing no different
Than to accept
And try to live with
The disappointment
Of oneself.

Havoc raining as a wave
Twice as tall
Allowing no escape
But to watch
As the trauma unfolds
And the words
Spoken out of hate
Branded on my brain
As a reminder
Of being unworthy.

A blank canvas
Unknowing
To the wide staring eyes
Bruised beneath
The blank canvas veil
That is the shell
Of skin,
More alien on this body
The more photo albums
A mind fills with memories.

Could I really be
The monster
Of which
She speaks?

Deleting
Is the only option
To escape the toil
Of counting fingers
And reading
Truths and falsehoods
To conclude
Innocence or guilt
In my adolescence.

Silence is a grave
That one finds comfort in
When these walls
Are so used to ringing ears
From the storm
That only lasts seconds
But lingers
In the gilded silence
As the mind speaks
Above the bloodflow
When all one can do
Is plug ears
With fingertips
In order to live with oneself

Retaliation lies beneath
The bleeding
Now only visible
If friends are let close
To see
As the heart
Tears threads
That have been sewn
To restrict emotion
Loosening the seal
On the demon cradled within

A furnace
Are thrown the old photo albums
But in turn are the recents
As a block in the mind
Has been created
To forget
Because nothing is worth remembering
During a childhood
Of only knowing
The names
And the fear
Of what you are,
And after such a block has been made
Remembrance
Is no longer
A thread
Sewn in
To allow an escape.

I listen to the endless cries of cats at night
Lonely and helpless,
Abandoned and forgotten
Living in a narrow, deserted alleyway.
I’ve left cans of food for them,
But that’s not what they want
They want love
To feel protected and sheltered
By the sheer warmth of compassion
Some may want to be reunited with their mothers
Or from their owners’.
No matter how many times these poor animals were left out in the cold
Or met with the scorching rays of the sun
We’ve neglected them to the point where
Anything better than what they have right now will suffice.
The next time I hear their cries
I can’t help but feel an overwhelming sense of guilt
Part of me wants to take every one of them out of their miserable lives
But some of these cats had lives
Some of us overlooked that
Walked right pass a cat that belonged to someone who didn’t want them anymore
Threw them out like the piles of trash
In the alleyway.

All I ever get is your ashes:
The macaroni dinner you burned,
The last part of your jokes,
The short end of your smokes,
And the last ones will be in your urn.

ℜ𝔬𝔩𝔩𝔦𝔫𝔤 𝔞𝔯𝔬𝔲𝔫𝔡 𝔦𝔫 𝔱𝔥𝔢
𝔖𝔱𝔦𝔠𝔨𝔦𝔫𝔢𝔰𝔰 𝔱𝔥𝔞𝔱 𝔣𝔬𝔯𝔪𝔰
𝔄 𝔤𝔢𝔩𝔞𝔱𝔦𝔫𝔬𝔲𝔰 𝔟𝔩𝔬𝔟
𝔒𝔫 𝔱𝔥𝔢 𝔟𝔬𝔱𝔱𝔬𝔪 𝔰𝔥𝔢𝔩𝔣
𝔒𝔣 𝔱𝔥𝔢 𝔣𝔯𝔦𝔡𝔤𝔢
ℑ𝔰 𝔱𝔥𝔢 𝔴𝔦𝔫𝔢 𝔴𝔢 𝔰𝔴𝔬𝔯𝔢 𝔴𝔢'𝔡 𝔡𝔯𝔦𝔫𝔨
𝔈𝔳𝔢𝔯𝔶 𝔴𝔢𝔢𝔨𝔢𝔫𝔡 𝔰𝔦𝔫𝔠𝔢 𝔉𝔢𝔟𝔯𝔲𝔞𝔯𝔶
ℭ𝔶𝔫𝔦𝔠𝔞𝔩𝔩𝔶 𝔞𝔴𝔞𝔦𝔱𝔦𝔫𝔤 𝔠𝔬𝔫𝔰𝔲𝔪𝔭𝔱𝔦𝔬𝔫