It’s a shame my body doesn’t hold scars,
So maybe then you’d know to fear me.
’Cause I swear, I dey craze gan.
Many nights, I write my protagonist away from a villain’s uprising.
Some days, the pressure runs so deep, the hatred so sharp,
I let it drive me to my grave instead.

I turn into a ghost,
A hollow, empty shell,
Seeing nothing, capable of nothing.
For if I dare hold on to something,
All I seem to bring is destruction.

Other times, I let this pain keep me grounded—
Anything to keep from hurting you.
And the truth is, I’ve caused myself so much pain,
Sometimes I doubt you know the depths my mind will go to keep me miserable.
If you did, you’d fear me.
And I get why you wouldn’t.

Ah see,
My chameleon has mastered its craft,
Gracefully taking the shape of the few things holding down my sanity:
A walk in nature to drive out demons,
Dancing with flowing waters to let anger drift,
And I can’t forget dear Mary Jane.
With her impeccable knack for introspection.

See, I don’t—I don’t revel in this pain I cause myself;
It was the price to make sure no one else could claim that pride.
And given the nature the universe saw fit to grant me,
I try not to externalize this inner… brouhaha.

Honestly, I deserve a medal for this.
My left hand is bleeding from a broken glass,
While the other carefully strokes your back,
And you dare to hurt me?
Me???

I am calmly seated at your back, shattered glass in hand.
I could carve my name into your veins,
Make sure every thought of me leaves a bitter trail on your tongue,
Make you curse the very day our paths crossed.

But I already know what that bile tastes like;
There’s no comfort in passing around that cup.
I find myself trying to give what I was never given—
Grace, comfort, understanding.

And that one good hand that soothes you?
I won’t lose it in trying to hurt you.
I won’t destroy what’s left of me to play your games.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Photo by cottonbro studio from Pexels