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Enter Poem or Quote (Required)Required Blank walls glare— mute sentinels of my undoing. I need to speak. To hear the echo of my own decay. Am I alive? Do I register? Do I haunt? I am so solitary. Time has rotted. I’ve tallied the ways I’ve loved him— each one a blade. It was never enough. Is anything ever enough? I am not my progenitor. Not a Xerox of dysfunction. Not a shrine to inherited ruin. Or am I? I am not right in the head. I have been brain-dead. Performing rigor mortis. Playing dead. I catch myself praying— a reflex from the crypt. Then I remember: I’ve outgrown superstition. But I am resourceful, relic-wise. I wield the tools of the damned. I carve solace from debris. I am not helpless. Or am I? I can’t even trace a path out of this tar-pit of despair. I sit. I rot. I wonder in the night. Why did he leave me to rot in the night? Is he cruel? Or just half-formed? I cannot tell— when he whispers love like a curse. I am not feckless. Not stupid. Not dull. But I bowed. I bent. I broke. I was never his equal— though he lied like a priest. Broken word streams. Shattered daydreams. I stagnate. I crush my own spirit— a ritual I know too well. It’s common. It’s expected. I don’t want to be ordinary. Or plain. Was it hazing? A blood rite into his skewered world? I hurt beyond phrasing. Not because I lost him. Not because he was never mine. But because I betrayed time— squandered my existence on relationship dysphoria. A farce. A theft. A desecration. Somebody stop me before I do it again. Gimme gimme gimme shock treatment. Institutional silence. I refuse to clean my own messes. I languish in the regolith— moon dust and madness. I like it that way. A glamorous excuse for collapse. Pratfall. Playing dodgeball with fate. Smashing my face against the same wall in the same room in the same hate. It is obscene— the clarity I now possess. I see my fault lines. I see my stop signs. Always blinking red. Men like him are harbingers of dread. Always weeping in their beds. I would rather rot in isolation than hear another counterfeit lament from someone unscarred. Someone who hoards pity from those of us who bleed in silence. I will not be pitied. I will not be plain. I will rise—relic-wise— from regolith to reign.
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