A Home For The Broken People

Figures

2:47 am
July 11th 2020

Once my mother told me, "you need to get rid of her."
And my mind filled up with a selection of half assed reasons for her to stay.
Like the way she gave me material things.
Even though these "gifts" were always followed by reverberating scoffs and defensive insults.
Every one pushing me further to the edge, and when she asks, "did you do it?"
I watch relief echo in her eyes as I say "no."
Knowing only I will ever hear the, but I thought about it.
Knowing only I will understand the way the cold flooring felt against my thighs and the way the walls shook every time I blinked to clear my eyes.
Tracing the gap between my legs and the loosness of my wrists and the fragility of my fingers.
Humming the song that replays in my head in a symphony of undetermined feelings which only come when I once again become broken by you.
You.
The inspiration for this poem and the thought behind raised scars.
The crushing force that follows behind every dangerous cliffside night,
The nights where the sky cries for me.
The one who my forever and always once falsely went to.