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Sitting here all alone again.
Knowing she was right.
She was right about everything she said about me.

I try not to let people walk all over me.
I really do.
Sometimes I can even become vicious.
Bitter.
Even though I’ve often hurt others,
My eyes can’t remember a time they were dry.
My tongue forms cuts at how I bite down upon it.
Lately I’ve been keeping my mouth shut.

I’ve changed so much over these years.
I’ve grown apart from what I cared for.
No longer yearning to be held,
But wanting actual feelings.

Feelings I give are never returned.

It’s like those mornings I used to have.
Where though the light was shining on my face,
I couldn’t see it.
All I ever saw was darkness.

I remember the days when I was younger.
The voices that I heard in my head.
Those people that were always out to get me.
I’m not surprised that dolls were my only friends.

The first friend I ever made,
Was one whose face I never knew.
A man far beyond the years I’ve lived.
A man who doesn’t speak with me anymore,
Though he has tried often,
To revive the friendship.
It’s dead.
I’ve pushed him away.

I push everyone away.

It bothers me that people don’t know me.
A hypocrite,
Is what I am,
I know.
I lock all of these doors.
But you think what I say and do,
Is how I am.
It’s not.
There’s so much more to me,
That you don’t understand.

I can be happy.
Though “happy” is such a strange word.
I can smile,
Yes.
I can laugh,
All the time.
But I laugh at my misery.
I chuckle at the things that hurt me.
It’s a nervous giggle.
It’s how I hide from crying.

I close the bathroom door,
And sit myself upon the ground.
My hands hold the hair away from my face.
I cry.
I torture myself,
By looking in the mirror.
The reflection laughs at every tear that falls.
I deserve it.

I’m chained at the town square.
Laugh at me.
Please?
For if I do not bring you joy,
Then I have failed again.

I’m so tired of failing.

My life is actually quite like a song.
I sing about the dream that will never come.
The dream that only exists,
Hidden inside this naïve mind.
I even wonder if anyone knows what my dream is.
I scream it,
And try to flaunt its importance,
But they bring it down.
They bring it down and turn it into nothing.
I have,
Nothing,
To live for.

What triggered this pity upon myself?
Her words were sharp but true.
As though she wasn’t stabbing me,
She was merely telling me about the knife in my hand.
And him?
Holding up a mirror to my face,
To show the tears.
The smeared mascara.

Saying goodbye is not what I call healing.
It’s what I consider deepening the wound.

I used to have friends.
I used to have people I was proud to display.
But who talks to me, anymore?
Nobody.
Then who am I?
Just nobody.

I feel sorry for people who do talk to me.
Not understanding what they want.
Another reason to point and snicker?
That really is what I’ve turned into.
A toy.
A ragged toy thrown in a corner.
Take me out to see the memories.
Cry.
Put me away forever.

I’m a thing of the past.
Don’t waste your time on thinking I’m still alive.
I died in your arms that night.
The last embrace we ever had.

© Sylwia Wielgosz 2003