You push it to the back of your mind.
You joke and laugh, and ignore others pity.
You pretend you're not the reason.
The reason they can't smile or cry.
The reason they can't breathe.
The reason they're empty, wounded.
It's like putting the knife to their wrist, without consent.
It's like watching burning and hearing screaming.
It's like taking chunks out of your own soul.
The pain so deep.
The rot so excessive.
The tears held back.
For those who know.
For those who feel it.
For those that see the innocent fall.
To your first 'kill'.
October 2009
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem