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Sitting at this table just doesn't feel the same.
My own home feels foreign.
I couldn't have asked you to stay.
Because you would have left anyway.
And I can't make myself blame you.
I realize that I am a walking catastrophe.
But I am a walking catastrophe that gives their all.
And I gave my all to you.
Every last shard of my broken self.
I'm sorry that I had made you bleed at the expensive of me.
I'm not worth the red substance that flows through your veins.
You and I both know that.
And that is why you left.
And I can't blame you for leaving someone that cut you to bits with their sharp edges.
Because maybe my all is so completely torn no one wants it.
I'm not good enough to be someone that is worth the pain.
That is worth the inconvenience.
And the struggle.
The burden of me is too heavy.
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YOU ARE READING
Finding Myself I ▽
Poetry"She painted her soul with words and displayed the pain for all to observe." Where a girl is learning how to love herself and the complicated life she lives.
