Your self-murdering tongue collapses
Amongst your smiling skin, as you scream, your cheeks
Collide, your eyes cannot contain the agony,
Your throat suffocated, your heart a single combustion.
It’s so hard to bring you back,
Walk amongst the living,
Believing that you matter.
The sight of you makes me want to shatter rocks, not his face,
He didn’t give you your name.
He didn’t baptise you for good.
He victimised you, but that’s not you, not definitive.
He poisoned you with pain and walked away laughing.
His words are masquerading who he is.
Look deeply at his actions, how he made you feel.
It’s not your responsibility to narrate stories to gaslight yourself.
You know him, understood it all, your face on the floor.
He is not your pattern, what you’re made of.
He offered you bronze and sold it as gold.
Listening to him is lying to yourself.
Your body always knew, you let him make you sick
Because you wanted to believe in love.
But he never knew what that is.
He could never give it to you.
He was empty from the very beginning and you were full,
He robbed you to invert the balance.
He wants to defeat your qualities,
Dry them to the core, leave you with nothing but a crumb
With your vulnerabilities, and solitude, and fears and doubts,
Turning everything that used to be good, sour, as
Sour as he himself always was and he is the one
That needs someone like you
To make the world a better place, but remember and look at yourself:
It’s your face on the floor.
“Portrait of a Lady” by Konstantin Makovsky