Saint of the Second Try
I used to hand out all my better parts,
I wore my care like armour over scars.
Gave to ghosts, liars; to those who took and fled.
Then wondered why I bled and bled and bled.
I blurred out my name just to make room for theirs,
Left nothing of me but the shape of their cares.
But even a shadow gets tired of the stage –
And healing whispered louder than the rage.
It’s caring in silence, with no one to cheer.
It’s calming the voice that still whispers with fear.
It’s letting this heal without asking for proof.
See, trusting my peace doesn’t make me aloof.
I care for me now – not in spite of the past,
But because I lived it. And I want to fucking last.
Leave a Comment