Kings – original poem

You ask me to forgive you

but how could I?

I hold onto it like a pebble in my hand,

squeeze, squeeze, like it would give water,

squeeze, squeeze, till my fingers

throb and my palm burns.

You say

I am only hurting myself, letting you hurt me, through me.

Let go, you say, forgive you, you say.

But how could I forgive

you when I replay the careless words you spat at me like prayers at three in the morning, you crazy bitch, you ugly worthless piece of shit,

and retrace your heavy grip around my throat with spite burning in your eyes, the blood in my mouth, the bruise on my thighs, no one will ever love you like I do, no one else can stand a pathetic trash like you,

and carve my arms and legs into portraits of self-hate, shut up bitch you don’t deserve me, you don’t deserve love for what you’ve amounted to be,

and how could I forgive

when I am so scared to the coldest pit of my core that I am never going to be able to love myself and therefore anyone else again because of the, fucking stupid bitch look what you’ve made me do, they are all so much better than you, you should be grateful for all the attention you’re given to, drilled and drilled into my bones, not good enough, not pretty enough, not easy enough, not smart enough, not stupid enough, not serious enough, not carefree enough, not skinny enough, not curvy enough, tits not big enough, ass not round enough, legs not long enough, not happy enough, not confident enough, what the fuck is wrong with you, what the fuck is wrong with you, what the fuck is wrong with

you.

So remind me again,

why should I forgive

you when my anger, my frustration,

women for generations

have burned and ached and bruised and cut and cried for the pain

that men like you

hand out like presents, whistling your victorious tune, with that smirk dancing on your lips, believing yourself the king of the world.

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