Disappointment smells like the burnt edges of the books in Fahrenheit 451
The city becomes too small at night.
The world will close in and curtains must be drawn
The shadows will not go.
I will hold myself into
I will carry myself through
but it will not be beautiful
The sun still rises
and people still die everywhere
This aching is
not mine alone
But my body is
mine to love
and the hurt is inside of cracks; inside of darkened spaces
That have forever gone untouched.
The things that fill me
are not what should;
the lives i live
are blemished with damp spots of bloodied hands and bruised with self-inflicted hurt.
I am not the only one hurting
but my heart is an organ shaped unlike any other.
The beating will start and stop
and it will not do so on account of anyone other than this girl I am and always will be.