Martyrdom

Why does it have to hurt so much?
It's like breaking every bone in your body
then jumping out of a 7th storey window
And you can laugh it off
but its still as hollow as a rotten nut.

When you think about what you did
you feel used and dirty,
cheap and unwanted,
unattractive,
unloved.
Again.

See, once is a mistake
and you can forgive yourself twice,
but three and you've got a problem:
serious attachment issues,
probably something to do
with mommy and daddy taking
but never giving and always
basking in the reflective glory
of a think they made but never raised.

And now you latch on to whatever you can find.
Whether they want you
or not
and usually not.

And you can blame yourself dear
because it is your fault;
how was he supposed to know
that you're more damaged than him?

Stupid girl, with your stupid dreams.
put down the pen and pick up the knife
and do us all a favour.
Your God will love you then.
And it wasn't a rash decision -
he knew it all along
and of course he won't regret it...
his lucky escape really.
Hope one day he writes about it;
then you'll really be immortalised.
Can yourself a martyr
and be done with it.

God, you're turning into your mother.

An Unhealthy Preoccupation with the Unobtainable...

A spotlight in my head
consumes my thoughts, my dreams;
It follows me, fills me with a sense
of my own self loathing.
I can see how it would be
star struck and sparkling and noisy
like that first applause, resonating
before the curtain closes.

I can feel that I want it
and constantly try
to hide it, but keep clinging, somehow;
because it is a far away dream,
impossible dream,
pointless dream.
For I've not the tools
nor the talents
to take on a tactless life
of sparkle,
glamour,
attention.

A spotlight in my head -
never fades, still bright -
blinds me with its passion
which I know reflects my own.
It's not quite forbidden;
only by myself,
my clumsy scrawl across a page
does not live up to
its own high standards.

As bright is the spotlight
is as dim as I.
How may one so dull
be illuminated is splendour?
In beauty?
I torment myself with fantasy.
I am sick, worthless.

A spotlight in my head
makes it pound,
makes me suffer.
But I will never let it go out.