My mind still wants to call you perfect but we both know that you’re not.
I can’t write anymore cos when I put pen to paper, all that comes out is you.
And when your bitter words cut me like a sharp daggered sword, all I bleed is you.
My tongue burns with the sourness of your name when I speak it, and it hangs heavily on my breath when I don’t.
The gates of my eyes don’t do that great a job of holding back the flood of tears.
When they do come through, they still give me no peace.
They’re just a sad reminder of my misery, my pain, my weakness.
I’m soaked all through and when I’m wrung out, all that flows is you.
You’re still sat squarely on my shoulders and thoughts of you have taken root in my heart with no desire to leave.
The dark crimson memories march down the dirty tainted walls of my womb in fury, begging to exit my filthy body, staining my womanhood, leaving discomfort and insecurity in their wake, stealing my self-worth.
Now all I have is doubt.
So how did you lock me inside myself without shutting the fucking door?