It Is Me They Call Unworthy

There are no more tears
They just don’t come
Just like you they too have abandoned me
Not even my tears are mine
Not even they stick by me
Like you they too have become traitors
And yet it is me they call unworthy
I loved, you faked
I cried, you laughed
You broke me into a million little pieces
Ensuring I could never become whole again
Ensuring the deep scars would bleed
Everytime they were tended to
You sucked my blood
Lived on my essence
And yet it is me they call unworthy
Why
This strange ache
I cannot even explain
Like a million shards of glass
Piercing through the heart
Taunting me to go down that path
I swore I’d never walk again
There’s nothing more than pain
This numbness deep within
Pain is such a bitch
Leaves me so broken
I can’t even tell myself
That baby you’re enough

 

Living my Imperfect Life

Linking this to the FridayReflectionsĀ over at Sanch’s

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Writing to me is therapy, it frightens and comforts at the same time. Liberates like nothing else. A book in my own name is a dream, but a bigger dream would be to write something that haunts the reader even after the last page is turned and the book is shut. I enjoy reading and music, spending time with family whilst battling my social awkwardness.

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14 thoughts on “It Is Me They Call Unworthy

  1. Raw. Actually physically painful to read from start to finish.

    I hope this gives the cathartic release write always usually gives. God Bless.

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