I am the thesaurus of obscure sorrows
And wrong decisions
Elysian yet sometimes a misandrist
For which he asks me why?
Why? I repeat the words to myself
The w is the whelved abuse which I hide behind
My fake laughter that echos in the halls
Of loneliness
The h is the horror of the darkness I live in
The y, oh the y is the yellow sun which I
Wish to find, the yellow that Van Gogh
Ate to make himself filled with happiness
I don’t believe in lying to people but
I still tell him the old English
Classic book version of the story
I tell him that the hamartia lied within the very
Own heart of the endearing young girl
That God took out time to write her tragedy
That the young man whom she thought of
Her father was the Grendel of her story
The molest was during the night
The panic attacks and self harm was
During the daylight
She sleeps with a baseball bat
Under her bed now
Room locked, lights off and sheets clawed
I tell him that the Romeo of hers was a
Mere shag bandit
That she out of all the people in this universe
Felt as small as an ant in front of the world
Which stood there like the mighty Hercules
That she let every single man gouge off her
Eyes with the golden brooches of brutal
Misogyny and chauvinism like Odepus
That she is the divine truth of misery and
Tragedy now
She loves coffee and literature
An aesthete who finds healing in the
Process of forming scars
She’s a piece of art
And art can never be understood by normal
People like you