I am tired of living in a world where my value is written in my use.
Where my silence, my steadfastness, my loyalty is everything you want...
Until it gives way to tears, and anger and grief.
Until I become a tide, uncontrollable.
I am tired of writing words, on paper, on screen,
That blur and run through tears shed,
In solitary confinement of a cage,
Of this home.
I am tired of I love you, but…
I am tired of I want you, but only on my terms.
I am so fucking sick of being looked at and never goddamned seen.
And I am hollowed,
and I am emptied.
So broken that I do not know where to begin to gather the pieces.
And I am full to bursting with anguish and grief,
for the child that was failed so badly, and the woman she has become.
And it will never be seen.
I am not permitted these things.
So it is held back, and bit down, and buried deep.
Poetry written through tears, so easily dismissed as pretty prose.
Never acknowledged as wounds, and this how blood flows.
And heavens forb