TW: Blood. (Poem) My Seat at The Table

 I left you a letter, written in red

Left it lying at the foot of your bed

I ate my dinner with a side of hate

and left you sitting with an empty plate

 

The cycle starts again, as always

I am the last one seated at the table, the last to eat.

I eat my cake and have it too- what I have is a mouthful of blood

Some useless prayers and some

dashed hope that I will live, move on

Some washed up, white desire for happiness, 

Your gun's firing blanks

and I'm advancing. 

I've been dead five years now and I'm still

finding bloated, drowned pieces of me 

in this bathtub. 

I am over the pain. 

I am over what you've served me, I am 

biting your hand off at the fucking wrist. 

I am boiling anguish. 

I am still the same weak person.
I can't handle rejection in any form.