It’s one of the longest nights of the year
and my soul aches from the pressure it brings.
As the darkness surrounds me,
I open my eyes and see much the same.
I lay in the small, worn bed of my childhood
as the silent tears glide down my face,
softly landing and expanding the never-ceasing puddles.
The tears are no strangers here.
My well-trained pillows are familiar with
muffling the screams and questions
that come straight from my damaged heart:
Why am I not good enough?
Why don’t I deserve love?
No one will ever love a damaged soul like mine.
My soul aches with the weight of carrying questions
that can never be asked or answered.
They are a burden I’m left to ponder
while staring at my ceiling,
trying to make out the faint details in the plaster
as I’ve done so many times before.
I’ve been here before.
I know I’ll be here again.
There’s no way to fix me
and even if there was,
it’s been made clear many times
that no one in my life will ever try.
I’m not worth it.
No one will wastes an “I love you”
on a girl destined to die.