My presence is tainted, diluted by the harm of you. The trust my body shed for your warmth is unrepairable, the distaste you get from my name in your mouth is unworldly spoken by the likes of you.
However I will be fine, eventually.
With every fight, with every condescending word that was said I was reborn.
Brand new into this world I am no longer the same one you knew.
I was beaten down to the core 'til there was nothing left but these words I have to say.
To say the least I am hurt.
I am not the same.
I am not sane.
I am hurt.
Tired.
About the Creator
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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.
By Brian Pimental5 years ago in Poets
Reaching Out
I promise her. I'd do anything for her. She's my mom. Even as Lanie and Deanna are flying home, Mom is scrappy fighting dying. She lays too still in that too-big bed with all the toasty white hospital blankets, in the south tower, at the broad end of a long slow-turning corner that delivers me again to her private room with the view she can't see through, with the beeping that tells us nothing new, and all these ice chips she can't swallow, and a flood of well-intentioned nurses who cannot do a damned thing all the same.
By Christy Munson4 days ago in Fiction
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