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

sabwrites