The Feast
The Feast The rage, devouring me within, Resentments towards the trusted They spoke me dead, while i still breathed Dug graves in words, their lies unsheathed Little to no shame their eyes speak, Borrowed my kindness, only to pay me back in silence. Now i sit empty, soft and bruised A heart too open, far too used. How easy it is, to write me in stories i never lived, Then bury me under names I never chose. Oh what a beautifully woven tale for them, To read, make fun of, and weave another. Such voices i hear, disgust i feel And the scar persists, Sure, they meant no harm. Laugh not at my resolute attempts, All to guard the remaining charm. Expect nothing more, for I won't react further And like always, I sit in silence, still, just me and my calm. -Sabwrites