I will be the court jester
But when you remind me of my past
My lungs refuse to laugh
Now I fall quiet
A sad smile dances on my lips
As I glance at you with pain in my eyes
You miss the red dripping down the back of my shirt
Almost as if you didn’t notice stabbing me
I will not get revenge
You are my friend
Not my enemy
But remember this:
I will be the jester, but I refuse to be your fool.
You were supposed to be different.
The one that I didn’t have to give up on.
Someone that I could rely on.
But I turned my back and you chose her.
She who wounded me with words and threatened to do worse.
Cursed.
Am I cursed?
Cursed to tie myself to people, swearing that they’re going to be different.
Only for resentment to grow like ivy, sentencing me to a place of discontent.
I’ve called it paranoia.
When I think of the color green, I think of the trees behind my school. In kindergarten, when kids were cruel and words hurt more than sticks or stones, the trees were there.
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