Broken Beating Heart.

I see all the scars you try to hide.

I see the cracks and gorges in your skin.

So I try to make you feel better because the only way I can feel good is to make other people feel good.

I try to make you not hurt.

And I try to make you not hurt others.

But it isn’t working and you’re still in pain.

And I’m feeling useless.

But you can’t see that ‘cause then I’ll only make you feel worse.

So I force down my pain and try to make you happy.

But you ask if I’m okay.

And I’m trying to choke out the words you want to hear.

I’m fine.

I’m okay.

I’m doing good.

But the champagne bottle has been shaken and the cork is about to pop off.

And my emotions spill over the edge of my eyes.

The fizz has spilled onto the table.

My stomach has been cut open, my organs on full display.

And they look at me with disgust.

Because I’ve showed them too much.

I try to joke and laugh.

Play off the pain, but they see my organs and my beating heart.

My broken, beating heart.

 

This poem is about: 
Me

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