#kyla
You know,
I thought about writing about you today...
Even though you don't deserve the art
that my words could turn you into.
I cannot even lie to myself and turn anything about you
into something poetic.
You see, my vocabulary can depict dying, pain, abuse,
and self-destruction into something beautiful.
But this is the first time that my descriptions
depicted someone as nonsense or nonexistent.
I may be able to lie to myself...
but my pen is incapable of such deception.
Poetry is clarity and yet,
even my poetry couldn't make you clear...
Maybe because...
you were never here in the first place.
Nov 11, 2017
Nov 11, 2017 at 12:08 AM UTC
I've been living in a constant
and catastrophic mental state.
I'm trying to silence my memories.
I need to forget the emotions
That I'm forced to relive.
I've yet to eliminate
Their presence in all I do.
There isn't a single moment
That isn't embraced in nostalgia.
The lyrics in songs I'm unable to delete,
Reanimates it all.
I've used a million different words
To explain what I couldn't.
In the end, I am faced with the reality
That I can't just run.
I can't escape through objectivity and pencil lead,
This time.
All of my unspoken secrets remain,
Slowly clawing away at my sanity.
In remembering where I've been,
I'm killing myself from the inside, out.
I know,
You can't empathize or understand.
And…
I've always known this,
So, it's okay.
Nobody ever really wanted to.
Nobody ever really could.
However...
There exists a deep loneliness
that's rooted in my own deception.
I'm always fighting to be listened to.
Spent weeks painting pictures nobody saw.
I wish someone had just proved me wrong.
Which sounds odd, to anyone else.
I don't want to write
what's never gonna be read.
Why write out the details
of a story nobody wants?
I often wonder -
Even if I am finally opened and read -
Would their understanding
change my story's end?
Nov 7, 2017
Nov 7, 2017 at 9:57 PM UTC
The first man I loved,
was intelligent...
he read, cooked, and cleaned.
But as a severe alcoholic -
he was 2 people -
also cold, ruthless, and mean.
My father was an abuser with a heart...
it was so hard to hate him
when he always had so much love to give.
All that love,
and he gave his daughter hate.
I'm a daddy's girl
who's 'daddy'
taught his girl to love abuse.
At 12 years old,
my first of many things,
was a 16 year old skater.
He was artistic, charming, and ambitious:
My first was also my dad's dealer.
Despite knowing this,
I still believed that he was my Prince charming.
There is no fairy tale
that mentions the Prince
being schizophrenic, volitile, controlling, or manipulative…
but I was young
and my heart was naive enough
to fall for his games.
My first molded an addiction into me
by teaching me,
in my 12th year,
to love manipulation.
I almost gave away my last name
to a man I fell for at 18 years old.
He loved history,
was a hard worker,
and he always knew what to say and do
when it mattered most.
Happily-ever-after doesn't always look like perfection,
but I almost married a perfect fabrication
of "true love".
Once the facade became too much -
I met PTSD, displeasure, neglect, and misery.
In chasing after the lies he painted,
I sacrificed all of myself
by keeping his truth
as permanent company.
I had wanted to save him so badly,
that I was willing to lose my identity
if it meant he found his.
After almost 2 years
of mental and emotional abuse,
the last man I loved sober,
taught me to love self sacrifice.
The men in my life
showed me what it means
to be the woman
who can never truly let go.
I have always retained the lessons
I learned from life,
and applied them.
After 21 years,
what I learned to love was
abuse,
manipulation,
and self sacrifice.
What I Learned To Love...
Was Destroying Myself.
Nov 7, 2017
Nov 7, 2017 at 9:49 PM UTC