I could write a book about what each tear means.
I could, but I won’t.
I don’t trust you enough to understand why I feel the way that I do.
I don’t trust at all.
My pain is scattered between old news and current events.
It’s written in these lines,
painted on the walls of the buildings I used to reside,
and held in the hearts of men that said they loved me,
but never quite knew how.
Sometimes I think about all that I’ve been through and cry.
I think about what’s to come and I cry some more.
I am far from sending a bullet through my skull,
but my sadness runs deep.
I am far from the woman that the public believes me to be.
Right now I am small.
I could write a book about it.
I could. But I won’t.
I could write a book about it.
But there’s nothing left to say.
written October 7, 2016.