Dying People Smile Too - Poem by Breanna Choma
There is a knife in my back.
Blood is running out as the rest drowns my soul, but it seems to be just out of reach and I can’t pull it back.
Tears take shelter in my eyes;
each drop is composed of potent acid.
They fall and reopen old wounds, and in that moment I know there is sure to be scar.
Stopped second guessing me and now I second guess everything;
tell me, why I hadn’t second guessed him?
I am Impaled by my own insecurities for trusting the wrong people with sensitive information.
The knife was only an additive to the pain caused by those before him.
I am a china plate halfway off the counter, tipping...
Voices in the back of my head taunt me with their words;
it isn’t long before, yet again, I hear them as if they are me.
I am Broken, but I was only bent before being bent back wrong.
They look at me and tell me I will be alright because I am strong, but being strong isn’t my suit.
They tell me to keep smiling, but a smile isn’t a reassurance that it will be alright.
I can’t sleep, but I can wake-up.
On most days I find myself wondering why it couldn’t have been the other way around, and I only seem to consider it more now.
Don’t they know dying people smile too?
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