Burn

Sometimes at night,

when the second-hand

ticks endlessly, forever

mocking me for my inability

to grasp the embrace of sleep

because I am too busy thinking

about you and the burn

in my throat and heart whenever

I see you in my mind.

 

How can I sleep when you're

still with me, screaming in anger?

How can I dream when all that I

can envision is a looming figure,

so large and massive that I cannot

imagine a scarier monster for a nightmare?

 

What am I to do? As you sit

across the world from me,

do you wonder how I am doing

as I do you?

Am I supposed to care about you?

 

Every second spent wandering

throughout crevices in my mind

makes me burn.

Burn, burn, burn, burn.

Burn with anger, shame, love,

and things that I am too afraid to say.

 

That's another thing.

Why am I so afraid?

Afraid to burn, burn,

burn with hatred and

burn with fury. Burn

with every emotion 

you've ever taught me.

 

Because this stopped 

being about you and your problems.

It stopped the moment I cried

true tears of fear the moment

red filled your vision and face.

And I stopped caring about

the things I had done

and cared more about the things

you might do.

 

Enough is enough.

 

I'm tired of burning,

of living in a forest fire--

filled with hate and fury

and guilt and pain.

 

I'm no longer your child.

I am now the monster

you were afraid of; strong

and independent and

courageous. No longer

shall I need you to hold my hand

when I get scared.

Because my demons weren't

the bad guys you swore

to protect me from.

 

They were you.

 

And like most demons,

you will burn.

This poem is about: 
Me
My family

Comments

Need to talk?

If you ever need help or support, we trust CrisisTextline.org for people dealing with depression. Text HOME to 741741