I don’t even know what to call
The feeling in my torso,
So tart and curdle.
As I keep on recalling your words
“It was a mistake,” you said.
But the brutal fact is,
I grasped it too late.
The mistake was mine,
For trusting you.
Is it too simple a word to describe?
The crushing sting
The tremendous solitude
And terrific isolation
That I experience.
There is always a first instant,
And it is never the last instance.
As I grew older, I got starker.
I have learned to do what I am told
With the utmost compliance.
I forgot everything I have ever wanted.
The pain still lurks,
But it’s easier to pretend it’s not there!
Than to greet the horrors
I have masked in the deepest slice of my mind.
My relations are snowed under
By the clout of my passion.
All I know is ache.
All I feel is angst.
I reach out for help,
But never seems to find
What I am looking for.
The woe gets worse.
The solitude sets in, when the feelings return,
I conquer with fright, hurt, and harassment.
I try to cry out for release
But soon, I learn, none will listen.
No matter how harsh I cry,
I can’t bar, nor can I alter, this spell.
No matter what I do,
The soreness will not cease!
As I stop confide in my own stance
As no one else retorts them, none heed my woe.
Soon the twinge becomes too immense
That I learn not to feel them at all.
Each day I begin to endure, more and more,
Like I don’t know what is existent!
This sturdy, lost, frantic me
Learns to give up the senses
Those make all of you feel alive.
I begin to feel numb.
As I have convinced myself
I am already dead.
As I wish I was departed
For me, there is no way out.
Soon, I have learnt
There is no leeway!
Yet, when I look around myself
I see nothing that should make me feel so penitent.
I know, something is very, very wrong,
Yet I don’t dredge up anything.
I end up calling myself bizarre.