Puppet-Blood-Lighter by Hawra’a Khalfan

There is a piece of me-
a savage,
that loves destruction.
It’s the same part
that digs my nails into my skin and enjoys the pain it inflicts.
It’s the same piece that only feels alive
when I can unleash the anguish in my head
physically onto my skin. 

I spend my days
looking down at your sleeping face
slowly realizing that i’m a pawn
being hauled by;
your love,
my aching heart,
and your withering away in front of me.
Your awareness fades
but my pain is fixated in a frame held up by
months of sorrow, reliving the same fear, over and over
as I pierce my skin deeper and deeper.

There is a part of me,
that just wants to plead with you:
“Let me come home to you,
Don’t let me lose you
Our house is not a home
We’re missing you,
Let us come home again.”
But then there come days of acceptance-
of pure uncontrollable grief.
Those days I can muster up the strength to see you,
I stand watching you, dazzled by
the strength behind your smiling dazed face
as it looks up at my tearful eyes,
and the small piece of you that still knows me
as if to say
“I’m alright”.
I wish I could believe your honest lie for my own peace of mind, but I know that
you’re not in control;
you’re just the strings, and
it overshadows.
It eclipses my life like
dusk is all there ever will be.

I spent my lifetime
stopping myself from unleashing my woe
onto everyone I meet;
by stabbing my skin deeper, harder, stronger.
I spent my lifetime
accepting it’s visible lies
and just persistently waiting
for it to allow you to live.
That’s the thing about
bloodless puppet masters, though,
they spark up a lighter, shower you in gasoline and
burst your life in flames
they always prevail in their journey of death
without any bit of shame.

So, here I stand defeated.
Here, I live on by pushing this reigning shadow
from blocking my lost sun.
Here I am, wholly knowing that it’s triumph means less torment for you,
Though entirely paradoxed with my longing for you to remain.
Here I, and my bleeding palms are,
still losing you.

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