A MISTAKE.

I want to wither.

for being miserably broken,

dully exhausted.

for having nothing to offer

but my aggressive pain.

which erases, each day,

a strand of my hair.

I want to die.

I don't want it to look pretty.

there’s nothing pretty

about being the abyss,

or wearing this cloak of shadows.

I embody the weeping

that is kept forever silent.

and the eyes that gaze, with pity,

at all I’ll never become.

I feel small.

I feel insignificant.

and that’s okay.

because someday,

no one will feel me anymore.

and that — that gift —

will set me free,

or make me eternally mine.

and they will finally smile, without pressure.

without my silenced voice.