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.