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I am tired of bleeding out in the bathroom sink, while trying to wrap my head around where I stand in this family. The thought hits me like a freight train - holds me hostage and burns my skin.

Who would I be without this struggle - without this pain?

I hold my head back, shove it out the window, just to taste the fresh air; The snow falling outside does it’s best to cover my most sinful qualities.

I am exhausted with their idea of forgiveness; all they do is throw around this precious gem, like they often spew out, “I’m here for you,” and “I understand.” It’s proven sacrilege – blunt force trauma to the senses.

I’m sinking… reaching out as far as I can for someone to save me, but they’re all turned away, eyes glued to a murder of crows, cawing simple threats of attack if I ever breach the surface.

I do this again and again, every damn day; with blood gushing out of my nose, a complete and open chest wound filled with unrealistic expectations. I step out of my front door like this, pretending nothing is happening – all is grand, all is bright, shiny and new – just how they want me.

And they can shower me with comfy blankets, warm tea, and treats; they can stand in my doorway and say nothing at all, but I’m still bleeding out, eventually the stains will bleed through.

Their forgiveness cannot save me.

Their truth is poison.

Their expectations are putrid.

But I have no idea how safe it would be to walk away. I desperately need a divine intervention – I can’t scream a single prayer but my voice has been stolen from me; my heart cannot pump out a prayer, it’s stuffed with so much dead dirt. My mind is compromised, it’s not properly disguising secret messages anymore.

The effort to keep quiet is not enough for them, it’s definitely not enough for me… but here we are.

Here I am.

Do. Not. Send. Me.

I can’t fight off these crows, just let me sink; let my blood purify the waters. Allow me to be the final sacrifice for their peace.

We both get what we want: You can bury the truth, and I can be put out of my misery.

sad poetry
Under-productive Girl
Under-productive Girl
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Under-productive Girl

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