I tire of all the metaphors and
beautiful imagery
I tire of being voyeuristic with my pain, whittling it down
into something easy on the eyes
something easy to swallow.
I do not bleed a vibrant red that rivals roses
I bleed a murky brown. I bleed a blood filled with clumps.
I am not perfectly cracked porcelain ready to be
glued together with gold
I am a weeping wound. I am open sores.
I am bleeding blisters. I am not a pretty sight.
I am not supposed to be.
when my wounds stung so much I couldn't sleep,
there was nothing beautiful about
my destruction. my withering away.
you do not know- you have no fucking idea.
I don't care if I'm crude or rude
I was hurt, I am hurt, so god forbid
I am angry at the years lost to a
slow death
I tire of a pretty pain.
if someone reads these, I want them to weep.
do not be grateful I suffered just so you
can read a pretty picture,
I want you to be uncomfortable.
feel my teeth crawling under your skin
hear my flesh be ripped apart
taste my vomit soaking your lap
my blood in your mouth,
sitting in my own piss and blood was not a noble act
don't you dare
romanticise the rot.
don't you dare congratulate
the ones who pushed me deeper into the water
they did not make me write, I did.
I am the one who made me stronger.
all they ever did was feed me my own scabs,
telling me to be grateful
fuck you
fuck suffering beautifully
I am angry.
and no one can take that from me
17 June 2024