*contains a few swear words*
I was honest,
I wrote with my feelings, really.
I described what I imagined when I heard you say,
“I’m going to kill myself today.”
Only for you to say that.
Only for you to think it meant you could not have feelings.
And not even to my face.
We were writing fiction, fiction,
our characters like puppets on strings.
I let those emotions, back when I'd stopped thinking straight,
back when my heart would race,
back when I'd type out messages begging you not to die,
back when you'd simply respond with refusal,
when you'd say, you're picking up a knife, or you're looking out the window,
I just let those emotions run free.
Just a little.
And now here you are,
not even telling me properly.
Just leaving your words on the page,
as if you did not want to try.
I can't stand it.
Why won't you tell me directly?
How am I supposed to guess and stumble with your feelings?
How am i supposed to know what you want?
If you'd just tell me, tell me, tell me,
I could try to change it all.
I could write about them happy,
about them dancing in fields of flowers,
but then I'd be lying,
because I don't know where this is going.
I don't know how we can continue,
when you just won't communicate with me.
Just talk!
Fucking talk to me!
What is so damn hard about it?
See, I don't even understand that.
So tell me.
Explain to me.
I'm just going to keep hurting you if I don't understand what's wrong.
Yet you won't.
Time and time again,
I end up so angry because
you leave these obscure sentences
in places most won't look.
And then you never respond to me
when I bring it up.
So how am I supposed to understand?
YOU ARE READING
Poetry of Death
Poetry"You kept saying that you would never die, that you would live forever. But here you are, and here I am. Isn't it funny? I'm here to take your soul. Did I mention, I love my job? Oh right! I never told you. I'm the reaper who will reap your life." B...
