My Pain Wasn’t Poetic

It wasn’t something that you could put into a few stanzas and make it seem like art. My pain was having a breakdown in which your body broke down. In which your breathing stopped for seconds and you lied there feeling like nothing. My pain was going from screaming crying to answering the phone like everything was fine. Was holding in tears when you asked me “what’s wrong?” because I kept trying to make it look like I had everything planned out. My pain was constantly hoping for the end, but praying for something less permanent. My pain was an overarching disbelief that I could ever be viewed as beautiful. My pain was laying down flat while you walked all over me. Touching other girls with your hands, then viewing me as less pure because you’ve touched me. Looking at their naked bodies, then saying that it’s just social media. My pain was the burning I felt in my head and the hollowness I felt in my chest. Trying to put a smile on because with a “positive mindset” you can fix anything. My pain was because of you, and now I’m scarred and left to bruise.

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