A Holocaust of pretty words
It’s a holocaust of pretty words and crooked smiles.
You expect me to laugh it off.
You expect me to be fine.
You expect for me to wake up and keep on living with this genocide.
“All it was…”
I want to know what it wasn’t.
I want you to pinpoint to where and when and at what part you thought this was okay.
But you won’t.
I guess some things really are better left unsaid.
Like the time I cut myself.
I never told you, but I bled all over the shower.
It stained the curtain and my hands.
I lied, red-handed:
This is a holocaust of pretty words and crooked smiles.
I can’t sleep with the weight of this mistake on my shoulders.
I can feel the poison from your last touch seep into my skin.
I can’t sleep knowing this is genocide.