I write desperate poems in desperate times in my mind or my life.
And I don't condemn myself but I resent who I am and have been in the moments I write them.
And I'm afraid of getting stuck inside those blurred lines, because those words, well, they hurt to breathe, they hurt to believe.
And I wish I could say they weren't true, they didn't mean anything, it was simply a rhyme to me, but I'd be lying.
Yeah, perhaps they were a little extreme, yeah perhaps I sometimes now disagree, but the girl who wrote those was hurting and it burns to retrieve.
It feels like reopening a wound and adding lemon juice.
Because it's messy, bleak, and utterly ghastly and I want to forget that raw aching feeling but it just keeps reappearing.
And how depressing it is that I morph it all into fancy terms and scarlett letters, rehearsing the painful phrases I wish others would care to hear.
But maybe that's on me, perhaps I should've stepped up to the bat to stand my ground and hold my own but it terrifies me that it may sting even more.
So I keep writing this tainted poetry.
