Pity comes in waves, like adulation with a bullethole,
Relief that they're not the one slamming doors to slam you
out of their life.
I see their pity, it reflects like a dusty CD. The scratches, well,
the scratches are me. Me, my heart, my arms.
I know how I'm seen, how I look to them.
I've seen the look on the bathroom mirror, every morning, as I wake, alone, again.
Every single look is filled to its teary brim with the threat of more
standing, on the edge of another breakdown,
and every single movement yearns to repeat one it knew
but there's no going back, those hands are dull now.
Wishing never did anyone good, wishing never understood
how time has to work, forwards with the falseness and pain,
forwards with the mushrooms mutating as I believe and retract
and walk that looping wooded path, each step a breath of pain.
They pity me, I know it, and so should you, you did this,
though my blood beats pride, this dark wound cloud remains.
Pity and piousness, I'm resigned to be the unlucky one now.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.