A New Hell Every Time
They say, “Not everything is about you,”
but what if every wound was true?
They say, “We never meant to hurt,”
but what if pain was not an accident?
They think I'm losing interest, losing me,
while I'm fighting for who I used to be;
forsaken, weary, misunderstood,
I hide my anguish like I should.
They call my mind a mental cage,
say I've lost my fire, lost my page;
but how can potential learn to rise
when resentment clouds the skies?
They make me guilty for every scar,
then wonder why I've wandered far.
“All's well that ends well,” they say—
but I find a new hell every day.
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