Writing

Look at me.

Again.

Sitting in a wreckage

I made with my own two hands.

Hours—

gone.

Dreams—

I screwed up.

Again.

Same damn wound, reopened—

blood and shame mixing,

staining every step I take.

I'm tired of putting on a show 

I will learn this time.

I am stuck, really, 

Her anger spilled in cruel phrases.

Silence after screaming was even worse.

I stare down at my hands.

They seem so distant.

Nothing is real 

She smiles

Like she doesn’t feel

The weight of

Expectations 

On her shoulders

She smiles

As if she didn’t 

Spend last night

Crying in her room

Slowly breaking