Here I stand
in the recesses of self-worth,
quantifying the number of deaths it took
to reach this birth.
my name is This Hurts,
and I’m a recovering Lover of Less Than.
Always been a fan of mysterious man,
maybe because father was a late bloomer.
From the rumor mill to the toxic pill,
to the “something about his eyes
makes my breath stand still”…
Whatever “it” has been to draw me
beneath his will – was ever just enough.
Just enough to
strip these layers to the buff.
Hidden worlds within my bosom
ran amuck, starved for a taste of love.
Wading trenches drenched in mud,
losing ground every time…
Grasping hope to rise above,
falling deeper down the line…
Never a blind eye, just
a heart asking why, making room
for shifting skies.
But clouds give shade, then
regurgitate rain over fresh tears,
drowning optimism in its…
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