Sink

I want to pull you under. Drag you down into the pit of my despair. Perhaps then you'll see this heart you toy with for what it is.

I want to show you everything. The blackness, the sadness. You must know by now this water was born from tears. These waves that threaten,grow stronger because I insist on putting limits on my ocean, still they rage. They have no where else to go. 

You feign sympathy. Offer a tissue and proceed to burden me with your own pain. I swallow it all, stifling the screaming as your hurt pours itself to my insides. These depth are not shallow. This rage is not poetry.

My tongue is bleeding from your bite. Your kiss like arsenic, my throat burns, expands. Your body smothering, your scent inhaled rips fire through my insides. 

This is not passion. This is not love. This is not so much as infatuation.

This is the story of a girl who had to find a new weapon of choice when they took away her razor.

This is a chapter in a tale that's been told a thousand times and still you can't see how it ends.

That you think I've kept my head above water tells me I've found another who will never hear my cries.  Tells me I can send out my distress call over and over again without any fear of being saved.

When that fatal point is finally reached, no one will be able to say I haven't tried.

Christ knows, the world is watching.

Will you be so kind as to at least stand on the sands of my final resting place? When my body, broken and depleted, washes to shore, will you at least look on in wonder, confess your indifference and whisper...

"Who knew?"

Natasha Head

2013