THIS PLACE

I’m tired. Tired of playing second fiddle. Tired of towing the line and being reprimanded for things I didn’t even sign up for. Am I the scapegoat? You readily throw your sins at me. What is my crime? Is it my existence that bothers you? Is it the cross you carry? Is it the scorn from your childhood? What is my crime, tell me?

Should I offer myself on the altar for me to seek your redemption? Tell me. The sound of my hushed cries soothes me to sleep in nights you so fondly remind me of doing nothing with my existence. What wrong did I ever do? I am not enough you engraved that in me. You compared me to others, showed me how they were better than I was.

Did I tell you how my self esteem went down the drain? Did I tell you how often I wished I was dead? Did I tell you that the sickness that followed was caused by you? Why should I eat to live yet there is nothing to live for? Why should I seek solace when you still disrupt my very being? You see, they see strength in me that I don’t see in myself. You let me down when I thought you’d be the pivot I’d balance on. This pain in my chest feels fresh. I stopped counting years, they only add up to my misery.

I am tired. Tired of being the sponge soaking it all up. I am tearing at the seams. The hurt, it’s overflowing, the dykes are broken. All the barriers are down, mutilated by the roaring waves. I could seek comfort elsewhere, the distillery never runs dry, the veins don’t stop popping. I could look for a way out. I could make a clean break, grab the rope and swing away to freedom. I want my wings back, I want free rein. I am tired of this place. This is not my peace. This is not my home. This place it wasn’t meant for me.