Weak

It feels like your lungs have been ripped out through your stomach,
Put in backwards and been told to breathe.
So, you sit there and suffocate
As you watch the bruises form,
Splattering like paint across your stomach,
And think it's quite fitting that such a feeling
Could be represented in such an artistic fashion.
Or, at least, fitting that you had some mark to prove
That hurt had been done here.
Not like all those other times when there was nothing left
But a sinking in your head
And a gasping in your breathe
That you never really managed to get rid of.

Except, the only thing with bruises
Is while they look so much worse in the days to come,
When they start turning from purple
To hinting at a sickly green tint,
They always, inevitably fade far away.
Leaving you with a memory and the self doubt
That surely, surely it couldn't have been that bad.
Because by that point you didn't hurt at touch,
And you didn't scar like you wanted,
So either you're a liar,
Weak
Or maybe it just wasn't that bad.
You don't know which you prefer.

Months later when it all happens again,
When someone comes along and rips out your lungs
And for kicks, decides to take your heart with them
And you're suffocating
And drowning in the sinking in your head,
You'll wonder why you ever doubted yourself.
How you could possibly have believed
That it wasn't so bad.
But then, you guess,
You're kind of like fruit that's been left to rot –
It's not so hard to bruise, now is it?

But it doesn't matter because
Always, inevitably, in the end
It's just you
Sitting with that God-awful sinking
That's all in your head.
Watching those sickly splatters form
And wondering when you became so weak.