𝕿𝖍𝖔𝖗𝖓 𝕯𝖊𝖆𝖙𝖍

I’ve been going through
little moments of clarity.
I’m of so much bliss,
and so much self-pity.
The gentle touch of love
sweeps me off my feet
and distracts me in colours of roses.
A hug, a kiss,
a smile, a gift
—all of the things that make me blush.
But the harsh crash of waves
and all the sudden yelling
reminds me that I’m never really safe.
A look, a word,
a threat, a curse
—anything to make me cower.
The love, the violence,
all only I know.
Waiting for the peace to make way again,
and knowing that hope is futile.
It’s a cycle;
a spin in the washer.
We’re up, we’re down,
we’re right, we’re wrong.
I wait, I cry, I plead.
You sigh, you lie, you grumble.
Temporary saves with lies of romance
and promises of change;
—anything to push the problems away
just for another day.
And then the load is taken out
and a new one is put in
and the cycle starts all over again.