Hope passes through,
leaving tiny holes as proof.
They sting,
as if you were pouring vodka on everyone of them.
The pain blisters,
unlikely to ever stop,
The pathetic bits of me
you could clean with a mop.
Without a word, you push me away, whether I’m ready or not
You don’t pick up the pieces, you just leave me their to rot.
I miss when you tried to mend me,
Through kisses and stories of happy endings.
But the torturing feeling of air through the vicious emptiness
Makes me feel certain there is no escaping this.
I see before me, a scorching sun,
With everyone around and no where to run.
It singes my lashes and I squint in it’s brilliance,
But if there were no path that hid a gloomy twist towards darkness,
maybe I would not have found shaded resilience.