I'm here,
in the last bedroom of your house.
Afraid.
I hear happiness, I hear you joking.
But I'm back here
crying with my hand clamped over my mouth.
Don't feel like I belong here,
don't want to look at you—
or my mother
or yours.
Don't want to see my mother having nothing to say when yours
holds her head up in pride and proclaims
you're the best son ever born.
While mum smiles a fake,
wishing
she could praise my
vain attempts
to make her happy.
Tears fall faster,
voices thudding in my ears.
I can hear your laughter.
And then footsteps,
but I can't stop from crumbling behind the bed.
"Hey."
I turn around.
It's you.
ESTÁS LEYENDO
From Those Nights
PoesíaThe story of a pair of eyes and a wild heart, words with rhythm, but no beat. I hope these words give you the solace I wanted, but found too late. -muffliato- ©
