The hurt is my chronic disease, diagnosed since boyhood, when the girl was trapped between boulders, gasping for air.

I will always love you for struggling as a lone parent, though your words became trauma, I have forgiven you.

I carried my satchel packed with insecurities, while the bullies walked unashamed, shooting me down, dead among my tears.

Never did a soul catch me carrying a knife the next day, while limping through the same halls of my broken heart.

But the true enemies of the story lived inside my head, shaped as demons, devouring my dreams.

When I called someone a friend, we became strangers.
When I kissed him on the cheek, he kissed someone else back.
When I entered a world of opportunities, I ended up lost in my fear and delusions.

I’ve prayed a thousand times, and the prayers were answered, but never permanently, as I still fight to survive.

The mountains are too tall, the enemies too strong.
My body aches from the bruises after falling too many times.
My body aches from the wounds after being shot repeatedly.
Now I just lie there, waiting for death to finally pick me up.

I blame myself.
I blame God.
I blame my family.
I blame the world.
I blame everyone and everything.

Instead of being happy for others’ happiness, I envy them.
I wish I were a psychopath, murdering their dreams, while I kill the guilt of my crimes.
A poor soul from Africa, could’ve taken my place and done something greater.

Being me is the hardest thing.
My crashes and burns are as much as my self-pity, earning all those tears for myself.

Yet, I’m still alive.
They say what doesn’t kill you makes you stronger. If that’s true, then let this piece of art be a reminder.