Poison
Pen in hand, I make the first slice and i feel nothing.
No pain, no relief, just nothing.
I take another slice and another.
Until a trickle starts to seep.
For years I have had the pen thrust in my hand,
And for years i have stared at the empty page,
Unable to make the cut.
Unable to rip open the festering wound I had become.
The ink i bled in the past, used to be sad, lost and angsty.
Over the years, the ink turned black.
Thick, dark and twisty.
Sadness, replaced by resentment.
The lost, replaced by defeat and embarrassment.
It consumed me to the point where i was suffocating.
My mind, taunted with images.
Images of how better off they would be.
Better off with out me.
I doused the images in booze so i could survive another day.
But in my survival, I became a walking poison,
Too empty to except love.
Too angry, to accept the happy.
Too hopeless to reach out again.
I reached out once, but instead of help,
He absorbed my poison, because he was just as broken.
He absorbed it until I felt his resentment;
Until we became strangers.
A stranger who hasnt noticed,
That I took off my ring 10 months ago.
A stranger, who doesn't seem phased,
That I've had my own room for a while now.
All these years I refused to bleed.
I didn't want to see the poison on paper.
It got out anyway.
Copyright © Erica Gould | Year Posted 2021
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