I scatter dirt all over my bed,
Abandon my heart to rot in it,
And close the door behind me.
As I step outside my home,
Ice interlaces it,
And I become heartless.
Frigidity numbs my emotions,
For they are not a recreation for the world to see,
They are not to be revealed,
They are not to be discovered.
I will not lay bare on the streets of this dull town just to be evaluated.
For the curves of my being are not to be observed by a clump of hypocrites,
My chunks of bitterness are not to be falsely endured,
The lumps of sadness I regard are not to be pitied,
The swelling of my mind is not a muse to be admired.
My sorrow is not a fetish.
Accepting me is not a novelty.
I am not a fucking novelty
As I sit between my ‘loved ones’,
Their criticism knocks on my crystal heart,
Begging to be felt.
But I breathe deeply,
Try to let go,
They throw another ‘joke’ in my beamish face,
And it pierces my icy wall.
But I conceal my resentment,
And leave with surefooted steps.
I enter my house with tears thrilled to visit my red cheeks,
Run to my bedroom,
Drown my head in my pillow.
Solitude is an everlasting bliss.
People drain me while it waits for me with an overwhelming need;
The need to embrace me.
And I’d rather be a recluse,
Than fake a smile with a bunch of dickheads.
I do not need you to erode my bed.
Solitude has been my only shelter when you lit up a fire in my head.
It has been my loving mother when you were my drunk father.
It has tucked me into bed when you were outrageously screaming .
Solitude does not ask for gratitude,
But I appreciate it down to my tired bones.
I write this with absolute sincerity,