The Pressure

to always have to explain the questions that were never asked,

but the attitude I felt, the backlash, the reclusive nature of the dream.

to repeat why love is given, and how happiness has no figure yet,

it’s never enough, albeit when it’s over that’s all one ever wants.

to say it’s okay even when it’s not because the mind is a terrible

thing to hurt, waste, deceive, and yet you deceived me.

to not give up every time you overreacted and sucked the air from

my lungs, to replace with frustration and strangulation.

to lying in bed with saline painting new paths, almost

engraving over the old one’s. New boos old news.

to letting go when saying the truth is no longer enough, when

all the words mean nothing, because the actions are stuck.

to asking over and over, what do you want, and patiently waiting

for an answer that was “I don’t know”.

to sitting up and hearing your dreams, speaking of plans, and watching

you do absolutely nothing.

to strain, that ache and pull, a familiar friend, a friend I didn’t

want to ever see or feel again.

to the corruption of love, to the pressure.

 

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