07 October, 2012

For Yourself

Stressing it.
Since when does talking help?
It makes me dig.
And that hurts worse.
It hurts to feel-
That's why I keep it buried!
What am I supposed to want?
What is safe to feel?
Emotions are made to be dangerous.
I can't stand the single things,
The little moments that
Shoot straight through you,
The ones that pang so
Roughly and kill you inside.
They linger and rip you.
The ones that flip you
Outside in,
Fill you with the most harsh
Sense of hatred-
For yourself.
This is real for me.
Does no one understand?
Do they think that I'm
Not serious? This bile
In my throat, this
Tremble in my veins.
On all sides are only
Walls, no curtain to
Fall through. I throw
Myself against them
But only damage myself.
Crouching in the corner,
Clawing at my face.