I was born with a sadness inside me, feeding on me excessively. My memories of joy, it continually buries.

I was a child that felt an abundance of love; But I came equipped with a shortage of affections.

I’d spend long days with my Mimi, so genuine. Takin’ swigs from her soda and stealin’ sugared berries.

An angel among humans. A saint among sinners. Whatever life she was sent to in ’91, I’d like the directions.

Then a coward forced more sadness inside me, further down I tumbled. Scrapin’ my knees, while on them.

Stumbling and tripping, fucking sobbing and weeping. Oh Adam, inventor of my downfall…do you ever think of me?

I think of you nearly every day, you’ve managed to consume me some days. I’d love to bash your pitiful skull in.

But I’m supposed to push through it and accept it, right? However, I tend to draw the line at the rape of me.

So I hide.

And I cry.

And I lie.

And another part of me dies.

One thought on “On the Verge

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