Resignation

There's a pain that is unique to you yet shared with many,

A wound inflicted that'll never heal, no matter what they say about time.

It can be hidden, can be forgotten, can be left to drift in nothing,

But it cannot be healed.

I ripped it open again the other day, bathed in the infected froth that burst from it.

It has helped me realize a lie I had told myself.

"I'll be alone, I don't want anyone else."

Life, that lover of irony, heard that lie for what it was and intervened,

It made a truth out of the lie and now I lament knowing that after being abandoned by those that should always be there, I'll have no one to hold this shattered soul of mine.

No one to tell me it's going to be okay.

There's a video around of a man telling his ma, whatever women want he doesn't have it. That is me, and he is I. I can't swagger and wax poetic or show the muscles under the flab. They have seen what I am and been left wanting, so have moved on.

I'm tired of hurting, but I'm more tired hoping, secretly, quietly, that someone will save this thing I have become.

It's this feeling that leads to that golden seven out of ten, but then who cares right.

In the end this all just a cry for attention from another entitled biggoted misongynist;