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Rated: 13+ · Poetry · Emotional · #2200963
A free-style poem about the destruction of every remnant of confidence.

You stole it away,

every tiny scrap of confidence

that I had remaining.

Not satisfied with the theft,

you wrung it, crumpled it,

trampled it

and tore it into fragments

which you then

went on

to devour.

Was it a way of increasing your power?

You need not have bothered,

for here I am,

as tearful a wreck

as I ever was and will be.

Are you happy now?

I think not;

you'll not be content

until I've exsanguinated

every little piece of myself,

bled it out,

become even more of a husk

than I am.

And when you've made me a martyr

to your own cause

you'll ensure that everyone knows just who is to blame

for the way that you hurt,

the way that you suffer.

Only then it will no longer hurt me,

will it?

For I will be beyond sense of recognition

of what you claim to be my sins.

Whatever happens now,

you've made sure that the victor wins,

while I bleed out my anger

along with despair.

And, you know what?

No one will care;

least of all


(40 lines)
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