what did not kill me
gave me ferocious scars
on my shatter proof heart.
i walk like i know a thing or two
about heart break and pain,
but to feel that you have to have loved
or have been loved.
and now i am not so sure
i can tell what either one means.
my hands are blistered from
trying to hold my own heart
in times of need because
no one else would.
is that what love is?
it doesn't have to be fiery and passionate
it can be small and delicate
like the touch of my fingers on
my chapped lips, thinking, asking
why no one will kiss them
except my own finger tips.
to love myself i have to be good
and to be good i have to love myself.
i only do not know where to start
because it is not my burning heart.
so it must be my brain.
but the days i try to hold my own brain
my hands turn black with chilling frostbite
and they crumble to dust.
it's not there either.
my heart is hot and shatterproof
my brain is as cold as a tomb
my hands have blisters covered with frostbite
my lips are chapped and unkissable
i have ferocious scars on my soul
and i do not know where to start
to find the meaning of pure love
and how to show myself how to love purely.
r.k.
YOU ARE READING
Meathead Monologue
PoetryI wanted everyone and everything; all the time and all at once. [volume ii] [poetry and prose] [2017-2019]
