Meaningless Title
I do not care if it's hard for you, if it makes it hard for me too.
I've given my heart, my words, my love, and you've given me iced, vague sentiments.
The more I give, the less you give, the more you take.
Your words are empty containers that trap me, suffocate me in emptier promises.
I have tried being patient, understanding, empathetic beyond what is good for me.
If you are consumed by your life, your issues, that is yours, just as mine is mine.
But I didn't shut you out. I gave myself what I needed when you weren't there and stopped hoping you would do what you said.
You are a poisoned well, calling out in sweet songs. Trickery.
I jumped willingly, to save you and held you because you are hurting indeed.
It has destroyed me. I am tired. Clawing my way out. Broken, dirty.
And you call to me, your voice in my heart, you know I am tenuous to suffering.
But I've heard it over and over and felt the pain of what you won't say or do.
So now I feel nothing. Nothing.
I am close to daylight. Fingers bleeding. The taste of sweat and dirt. Stinging. Salty. Bitter iron and stone.
I don't even know who I am or what I'm doing but I reach, grab, pull up, drag. I will not give up.
The dull gray, dripping stench of a heart's forgeries cut with fresh clean air.
I am so close to filling this well with dirt. I would be a hero of a woman if I buried you for good.
I am consumed with ending this. I don't care about the pain or the blood or everything I lost.
When the shovel empties on your void, you will grow quiet. Until you are silent. Only to return in my nightmares. Which in time will fade without your horrors.
I've given my heart, my words, my love, and you've given me iced, vague sentiments.
The more I give, the less you give, the more you take.
Your words are empty containers that trap me, suffocate me in emptier promises.
I have tried being patient, understanding, empathetic beyond what is good for me.
If you are consumed by your life, your issues, that is yours, just as mine is mine.
But I didn't shut you out. I gave myself what I needed when you weren't there and stopped hoping you would do what you said.
You are a poisoned well, calling out in sweet songs. Trickery.
I jumped willingly, to save you and held you because you are hurting indeed.
It has destroyed me. I am tired. Clawing my way out. Broken, dirty.
And you call to me, your voice in my heart, you know I am tenuous to suffering.
But I've heard it over and over and felt the pain of what you won't say or do.
So now I feel nothing. Nothing.
I am close to daylight. Fingers bleeding. The taste of sweat and dirt. Stinging. Salty. Bitter iron and stone.
I don't even know who I am or what I'm doing but I reach, grab, pull up, drag. I will not give up.
The dull gray, dripping stench of a heart's forgeries cut with fresh clean air.
I am so close to filling this well with dirt. I would be a hero of a woman if I buried you for good.
I am consumed with ending this. I don't care about the pain or the blood or everything I lost.
When the shovel empties on your void, you will grow quiet. Until you are silent. Only to return in my nightmares. Which in time will fade without your horrors.
41-45, F
