Posted in Blog, Creative Writing, Personal, Writing

Nobody Makes It Out Alive

The rain outside is sympathetic,

pressing against the window,

in an attempt to make me feel less alone,

but she just shines a light,

on the empty side of the bed,

unread messages,

tear stained pages of my diary.

The rain tries her best,

and for a moment,

we are the same,

I press my fingers to the glass,

but I cannot feel anymore,

and there is no warmth to be found,

from temporary empathy.

I let you know that I’m awake,

just in case I’d like some further disappointment,

mid morning,

crying into burnt toast,

that it has been five days,

and I am slowly unravelling,

though I robotically request the same,

every day,

just a little acknowledgement,

that you are not dead,

and that you still love me,

just as a little treat.

You told me about the ones before me,

in the asylum of your affections.

Now they surround me at night,

as I collapse and awaken,

again and again,

to torture.

Gaslit girl gang.

I can’t tell if they haunt me,

for revenge or pity,

or just to tell me,

that nobody makes it out alive.

I try to remember,

that I was alive before you,

and that the rain

was not a sister,

but just a sound,

a sequence of events I could ignore,

but when I hear her call,

and not yours,

I don’t know if I’ll ever be alive again.

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