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i am pain
and i am painful
and then i question if that’s allowed
to be thorns and silk all at once
to present yourself as an elegant flame thrower
who shoots darts like they’re daggers
but only when truly antagonized
and “when is enough?” becomes the question
as we break down the barriers that make tears look like burdens
stacks upon stacks
but when am i right in aiming arrows towards a heart that broke mine
when does consequence spill into hatred, or was it always there
compiled into a box of old things they forgot to take
much like the parts of you they no longer wanted
that i aimed with precision trying so desperately to send back
and only after i fired did i realize my trigger was handmade out of all the things i loved about her
and you’d run in the middle just to make sure it never struck
until you start to question if they’d ever do the same for you
so you stop in your tracks and watch straight on as it happens
and you hate that some part of you feels freed
while another part has never felt more trapped
because anger is any emotion’s best disguise
never even trying to hide itself like black paint smeared up your arms
that you wash off relentlessly until it becomes normalized like clockwork
covering the weights now on your shoulders, down your spine, in the way we move our legs more slowly than before
how can we twist stories into motives for the greater good,
into reasons why they should hurt so no one else ever has to
and what if we have good intentions
for a good cause
that selfishly free us from all the times we were told we weren’t good enough

and when are we cruel
and when are we angry
and when does pain become personified into hands and cheeks and confusing creases around the eyes
and when does became pain us
and when do we let go

because now i am sad
and i am sadness
sending to others just like it was sent to me
the most self deprecating cycle of love
that i wished had the wrong address.

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