My will withers like the skin when it becomes old.



I am weak,



Pathetic,



Trivial.

I need to stay strong.
I have to.
I must.


I am desperate.

I am selfish.


Selfish,
Always thinking about myself.

What would they think? Would they blame themselves? Would they stare at me with clear disappointment in their eyes?

It’s not their fault.

It never was.

It’s mine.
All mine.
Only mine.

My fault I broke my skin.
My fault I cry so often.
My fault I feel so much pain.
My fault for why he doesn’t love me anymore.

I am the reason my beaten,


Battered,


Torn,


Tortured,
Heart wants to shrink and shrivel
Away, like a dead flower.

But,
I need to stand tall.
I cannot crumble.
I must not breakdown.




Yet.