by Nick Gisburne
I’m sick of the damage, the dangerous lies,
The way that you kiss me, contempt in your eyes.
I’m sick of the failure you find me to be,
The nobody, always imperfect, you see.
I’m sick of the future your fury designed,
Expected to follow you, broken and blind.
I’m sick of the second-rate savage you are,
The bully who pushes and pulls me, too far.
I’m sick of a prison I cannot escape,
A world without pleasure, or purpose, or shape.
I’m sick of the misery, day after day,
Of knowing you listen to nothing I say.
I’m sick of it all, but I see what is true:
The sickness was never inside me. It’s you.
