Sunday Morning

There is nothing left inside. Hollowed out with greed and left as a vessel for the hate you feed inside your mind and spill into me. There’s nothing I can do but light a cigarette and wait for the rush to combat the sea before I drown. There is nothing else for it.

You who took my heart with both hands and twisted, tangled, mangled, contorted, distorted so as to fill the hole within yourself have left me with this empty shell.


Mel, it’s ok.

It’s going to be ok.

It’s going to be ok.

There is nothing that calms the ache left in the wake of burdens you picked up but couldn’t take. And if you reach out your hand it won’t find mine to hold. The cold is getting colder and the excuses are getting older. Nothing lasts forever, save for the demons who have been there since the day I came alive. They have held me in the dark when the world was too full to let me in. They have dragged my weakness into light when trust became my sin. They have held my hand when I could not stand on my own and gagged me into silence when I couldn’t stop the words from flowing. And now they rock me into serenity and whisper softly of all the things I’m stronger now for knowing.


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