you may not realise
but my soul has become a vessel
for collecting all the hurtful things you say.
the moment you say them, it absorbs.
it takes them in and there is no way out.

they multiply.
they expand in volume and in time.
they stay there, and they rot.
they become heavy.
they smell bad, and they make me nauseous.

i am cursed to remember every word.
every sob.
every scream.
every pause.

you may think you are hurting
because i am destroying myself,
but you have been destroying me
bit by bit,
word by word,
breath by breath

since the moment you thought you wanted to help me
but forgot to ask me, how.

the story

i’ve told that story
half a dozen times,
maybe more –
about how i saw
my own mother
collapse in front of me
and screaming
like a wounded animal,
because i told her
i wanted to live.

i’ve told that story
half a million times,
maybe more –
about how no one
should ever witness
such a mourning
just for trying
to become what they are.

i’ve told that story
half a billion times,
maybe more –
about how building oneself
means you have to burn,
and revive
from the ashes.

i’ve told that story,
and i will say it again –
until no one else
should find themselves
such pain,
to create the person
they are after.