I can't read your words anymore
because every time I read them,
it spears me all over again
And I'm already so full of holes
I'm sucking air now
a giant, sucking chest wound
and could become
just an emptied, orbiting void
a shell of pure nothingness
But at least maybe then
the pain would become unrecognizable
by any remaining humanity left inside
Once I was alive inside of you
Painting your brave dreams vividly
with all the the flagrant emotions of hope
I can't read your words anymore
I do just fine until I make that mistake again
though someday your name will be
just another sad, tired chapter of a life I had to close
A bereft bank account that began to cost much more
than it ever added to my days.
And even that wouldn't be so difficult to bear
except for the memories
how much you still managed to torture me
and how I bore up under it, embraced my martyrdom
because I thought I was your only savior then
And I can't help wondering, do you torture the other now
or are you saving it for an unexpected surprise later on?
Or perhaps it was a special treatment
only for an upstart like me?
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
How sad, Patti, -how very sad! I pray that the 'giant chest wound' has healed, though the scars seem to remain. Constance