I write about the “people” who have hurt me.
But what if the people are all inside my head?
The pain I say I have is real, but the torture I go through is only a reflection of one.
And it hurts—the thought of trying to see the face of who is really hurting me.
But when I follow the sleeve that covers secrets long unmentioned,
I see the color of her hair and her pale face, but her eyes stay closed, horrified to be read.
I see her right through the mask, because a tear fell,
And the mirror broke, shattering all around, causing a gasp and a shout.
Her eyes opened, and I finally saw I was the monster all along.
But why do I try to hide from myself, out of everyone?
Maybe because I know I can’t defeat her, and she knows she’s won.
A broken self, chipped and missing pieces—
The brutal mess of self-hate instead of self-loving.
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Author:
Violet_Writes (
Offline) - Published: December 10th, 2025 10:04
- Comment from author about the poem: I didn't have a title for this one, so I'll just call it "People" for now.
- Category: Sad
- Views: 8
Offline)
Comments2
Others and ourself cause damage of equal weight. We often have to sort out who is who to fix the problem
I think this is one of the hardest realizations of all--that our biggest holdback is ourselves, that our biggest hater is ourselves. Well expressed!
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