Exile
The pain is what made me.
They made their way out and I walked in;
I sat inside alone again;
I never should have asked for this.
I was broken long before she came,
Before they could bear to look at me the same.
They said, “Something is off that we can’t quite name,”
It struck and I shut myself away.
The pain was made for what I became;
And I was the only one to blame.
I used to drown to fill the wound,
Until I couldn’t feel the flame consume;
All at once, I found a way through,
When everything had felt too soon—
It was only myself that kept me from you.
I am never enough of what they need;
She didn’t want the rest of me.
I cut her off to watch it bleed,
I burned the bridge to make her leave;
She never even felt the need.
The way out was back before I walked out
Of my life
And laid down beside her that night.
I damaged myself to heal,
To feel
Anything that held a knife.
I let it out like I had trapped it inside.
The light broke off—
I can no longer stand to watch my hands
Tremble.
The day will come when I get it right.
My body, scar-filled—
The apology I must owe
I ruined it before I could know;
They told me over and over to let it go.
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