Pain bigger than both of us
is seen byfor only one of us.
Silence with its deafening shrills
fills the void standing between us,
sending me running for the hills—
sprinting into the arms of the last of us.
I have invisible scars to hide—
a superficial habit
my best friend deemed
a manipulative tactic.
No one took me seriously
after you screamed at me publicly,
“If I can’t have you, no one can”—
after you said you had a plan.
Who would dare be a cheater-sympathizer—
empathize with a bold-faced fucking liar?
Sure as hell wouldn’t be me.
Puppy love turned tragic,
someone killed the magic
and there’s only one suspect of who the villain could be.
The headhunt ceased when
a little birdy told me what he said today—
rather chirped or tweeted
with his face hidden away.
There were no lies in what he said
while dragging my life through the mud.
It was secondhand slander—misrepresenting
what rotted my head.
I slammed to rock bottom—
shattered the facade I held so dear.
Shards of myself so perfect—
the message: crystal clear.
I wasn’t worth the words in person—
only penance in my grief.
Fragments of myself
cut through for relief.
So I hit self-destruct
to halt the naivety fueling the fool.
What’s the use in trying my best?
Why not die to be cool?
And a lost child thought,
“Maybe in the next life,
the truth might not be so cruel.”
Kailani Norwell is an amateur writer. She writes for the love of writing. It is her sincerest form of expression—a way to put her wide-ranging ideas and life experiences into something cohesive. As a clinical therapist, she helps others find, listen to, and use their voice. And her writing is her voice. The world as she experiences it is her inspiration, and her love of personal flair fuels her style. She doesn’t think she’s to write the next great American novel, but she’s to write something. Stay curious.
Featured image by Richard Jaimes on Unsplash
