All That You Could

And after you did all that you could

it still wasn’t enough.

the softness.

the forgiveness.

the beauty.

Being the truest part of yourself that you could be—

or at least, what you believed was the truest—

after you did all that you could,

it wasn’t enough.

Blowing away loose eyelashes

off the tips of your fingers

won’t fix all of the broken bones.

Who would’ve thought your biggest let down would be your own self.

Who was the first to discover a self-pitying moment,

where you couldn’t even look at your own eyes in the mirror

because you’re too ashamed of how you’ve gotten to this point.

This point of a knife that is stuck in your back, that’s been there before,

but you were the one who so easily and happily let it back in,

stupidly thinking that it’ll heal the open wound it made in the first place.

Then you start to wonder if this low-life is what you deserve.

If you’re so willing to lift your window shades for the dark,

then maybe you deserve to be consumed by the icy, black water,

choking to death on the thing you claim makes you feel so alive.

Maybe that’s it.

Maybe you have no soulmate.

Maybe you have no one who will bring to life the daydream you imagined when you were twelve,

reading a book that taught you about true love, but not cruel love, or selfish people.

Because what if one day, God forbid, those violent words full of swears turn to bloody bruises and scars?

What will you do then?

Will you still ignore the blood on your shirt and convince everyone that everything is fine, including yourself?

How long are you going to stand there and dig your own grave?

Why are you so…

unbelievably, and stupidly,

the most innocent person on this ground?