Limits

I have bruises on my hands and grass stains on my cheeks.
I have holes in the photographs. I'm so so weak.
These memories are calling, beckoning to reemerge,
Please remember the words I said to you, for god's sake I wish you heard.

You didn't teach me anything. How to stand up and grow tall.
You didn't listen to my questions or give a hand when I needed to fall.

Teach me how to recognize these flaws that I have.
And teach me how to understand the alpha from the pack.
Show me how to swim into a vacuum of uncertainties.

So fly me out into the waves and drop me deep on the ocean floor. On the surface I am suffocating but now I can scream out for more.
Water gushes in my mouth and down the cavities of my conscience.

Colour. Black and white.

Fading out of this impossible maze. My life.

You didn't teach me how to

drown,

you didn't teach me how to

die

but you were there enough to push me to

try.