I’ve been beating at the walls inside my brain
Looking for a way out.
I thought it’d be safer in here;
Like running upstairs
In a haunted house.
Every day is a slow burn
Trading in function for numbness.
Feeding a little more of myself
To the ghosts
Wandering these halls.
The poems I wrote,
Were never about her.
That was just me
Talking to myself.
And for all the talking I’ve done,
I’m not sure I ever had anything to say…
Except for the part about being tired and hurting.
I meant that.
I know I’ve birthed light into their dark.
I had hoped to keep them safe
From the darkness choking out my heart.
Most days when asked if I’m alright,
Everything is fine;
I’m-I’m just tired.
I never speak up.
I don’t speak about the old ghosts,
Burned down homes,
The faces in the mirror staring back at me,
How scared I am.
I am scared.
I’m not okay.
I just wish I knew why.