Let This Be Surrender

My heart’s arteries constrict,
Like a python taunting their prey
For all the agony they could inflict,
And yet the mercy shown to simply asphyxiate

Am I supposed to repent for my sins,
Or am I supposed to be grateful for His pity?
Am I more than just a heartbreaking charity case,
Or will I die without their non-profit sympathy?

My teeth have grown tired of gritting and grinding,
How long can they hold back this relentless rage?
And not let it seep through the cracks of this sultry lust for damnation,
Before they, too, become corrupted with the primal need to obliterate?

If it’s a matter of patience, I assure you I have waited,
I have watched the seasons change and become crueler everyday
I stood by as everyone around me claimed victory and took home gold
And yet, funnily enough, you say there is no more leniency left for me?

My eyes are tired of always quietly observing;
The juxtaposition of others’ childlike carelessness,
And the vastness of my adult-like decisions
Who am I, if not a child far beyond my years?

You marvel at my maturity like I’m some saint or wise being,
And yet, I’m just a museum of all the sorrow that defined me growing up
The sight of an empty house with an anticipating child might bother you,
But it ceases to matter when you’re the one who had to do the thumb-twiddling

My bones tremble from the mere weight of my body,
Like an ache that just never goes away, stubbornly persistent
Perseverance is great until it decides to head south,
And perhaps these repeated blows would make boxers jealous

Maybe I should just call it a night,
That what I always do, don’t I?
I convince myself the hurt will be gone by tomorrow,
And then act all surprised when the wound keeps bleeding

My throat throbs from holding back year-old wails,
A frayed rope always twists around it like a noose
Resembling a hostage making their victim feel guilty for speaking,
Therefore, I swallow the words I have been mulling over entirely

Sometimes I wonder why I have to make my anguish beautiful
Perhaps it’s the artist in me, still diligently painting masterpieces
Or maybe it’s just the armour that wraps around my body every night
And forces the bullets that escape my heart to ricochet for evermore

I must be the epitome of collateral damage in this forsaken universe
Always caught between the crossroads of rationality and absolute insanity
Always the first lamb to slaughter when things take a turn for the worst
But of course, what did I expect as a war-torn refugee and a child of divorce?

More often than not, I question whether this poetry is truly therapy;
For even if my words dance across this page with elegance and grace,
I still can’t help but make all my devastations metaphors and similes
As if the antidote to this disease is hidden beneath literary devices

“If that’s the case, then so be it!” I whisper harshly with tears still in my eyes
If I am perpetually destined to hurt, then let this become my identity,
Let the serpents taunt me, let my teeth erode, let my eyes tire forever,
Let me bones quiver, let me throat palpitate, and please, for the love of every deity,

Let. This. Be. Surrender.