The One Where I Forget Who I Am

If there was one thing
That I could convey to you
Without fear of reprisal
Or getting the look.
(You know the one.)
It’s that I am in pain and hurting
And I don’t want to discuss it.

“Poor you. I’m so sorry you are hurting.”
Fuck that. Let’s talk about football. Makeup,
I don’t care what else.

Because the truth is
I don’t care anymore.
I can’t seem to convey
How little the pain matters at this point.

I want to pretend it doesn’t exist.
Go on as though I am fine.
Because the sympathy and sad looks
Make me feel
oh

so

small.

I hurt.
I do.
And I feel angry,
Some days so much that I can’t contain it.
I try to hide it.
I try to hide myself.

Someone always wants to drag me back.
Or farther down.

I’m pretty sure the bottom of this well
Is dried and cracked
And that when I get there
I’ll just be more injured
And parched.
So let be. Let go.

It’s not the politically correct way
To state it.
But I wish I had more drugs.
Something that would take the pain
And the upset
And the exhaustion
And kick it right in the ass.

Unfortunately, all I have
Are my words.
And they alone are my salvation
In this place.

And it turns out words are a crappy
Replacement for morpheine.

-sll
1/13/2014
11:49pm