words are only half of me,
they cannot represent the whole,
the shadow of the self that lingers
and says nothing at all.
i’ve spun a narrative a thousand times
of who i think i am,
trying to poeticise it, manipulate it, –
trying to convince you all.
there’s who i see and who i am,
who i am, and who i miss.
who i want to be, who i need to be.
who i’m scared to be with when night falls.
Night brings thoughts i shouldn’t entertain,
so i try to shut them out,
to stop playing this cyclical game.
i should feel so alone,
but part of me is relieved –
i lost myself trying to please you,
trying to convince myself i deserved pain.
the urge had always been there
to light myself on fire.
a form of punishment or self love?
i relished in the silence.
but i’m tired of the endless cycle,
of the smoke and misery –
i think i prefer myself
when i’m actually fucking happy.
thought i was whole with you,
but i was only half myself.
my words are only half of me,
but this half of me is whole.
Leave a Reply