Bruised

I testified as the Beatin and the mistreated to a crowd of indulgent assholes who think life is this paved road that they created and there’s no separating from it. Always the bad guy never the victim when it was you that hurt me, when it was you that I took care of when you needed to be taken care of, when it was you that thought all the little things I said was cute and nourishing as a lullaby is to a newborn baby. But now all you say is “Just stop being so stressed about me,” sorry but I can’t. I can’t just stop being stressed about something that means everything to me. You say I spaz out because I’m an emotional wreck and I have my problems, as I set my problems aside and try to make your problems mine all you can do is think about him. You’ll see that it’s not I who is the one that’ll in the end take you to a place you don’t wanna go but it’ll be I whom will save you from the place. I’m the Gatsby of my generation, a generation that’ll one day be lost. Now I’ll go back to my razor blades and whiskey while you wait for him, as you think he is imperative to your life as if I am not. To not see what is truly happened to your life will be your demise. Now I ask you have you seen this girl, perhaps in the mirror as you do your makeup or perhaps in the mirror as you wipe away the tears as you whisper “no more." Who’s the victim.