Tired People. January, 9.
There's a knot in my throat, and it's not dissolving. I'm crumbled on the floor.
I've always been a mess when it comes to this, to them, but you see I'm tired of the same old shit, every time.
I can't believe I'm this years old and still feel like the kid that use to scream in her head, and beg him not to -- please don't, don't hurt her, don't hurt me, stop hurting yourself. I can't believe I'm twenty and I still want to scream -- don't, can't you see we're cracking, right in the middle, and you're holding the knife. Please.
I don't know how to explain it, you might not even understand. For years I've watched them hurt themselves, indirectly hurting us, all of us. For as long as I can remember, I've seen the knife disguised as a tongue, I've seen the blade in a man's fist. I've had to pick my mother up and cry alongside her as they stitch what my father broke, repeatedly.
I'm tired, hurting, and every aspect of my life has been affected by this trauma. I'm trying not to let it govern me, but first I have to kill it, right. Occasionally, I just hate my life, but, I can't help but see that he's hurting, she's hurting, everyone is hurting.
Amidst the punches, screams, and pleas, we are all hurting, breaking at the seams. If only he hadn't been so damaged, I won't be crumbling.
My home has always been filled with tired people. Help us.
A/N
I wrote five poems called "Collections" for something, and here there are. Beware, raw, unfiltered, really really raw.
YOU ARE READING
Something Mending -- VOL 1
PoetryOf Breaking hearts, young love, betrayal and pain. Of Mending hearts, familiar pain, unexpected hurt and aftermath. Of Healing hearts, underated heartache, pain and acceptance. Of Love, Love that is as deep sea. Pain, that knows no bounds. Strength...
