Boring

"Boring.
You are boring."
The words feel like thousands of ribbons being cut inside of my stomach,
your apathy snipping away like the fiercest of scissors,
a punch to the gut that knocks me back a few feet,
sends me hurtling towards the tiled marble floors.
Every spiked letter clawing at me from the inside out,
it hurts to hold myself under the sheets.
B is for the plentiful moments I can't make your heart
beat, beat, beat anymore, no matter how many times
I perform CPR on your blue, lifeless lips.
O is for ordinary, nothing more, nothing less,
just part of a pattern on a dull wallpaper
that sometimes bubbles up in the sweltering heat.
R is for the "our" that no longer seems to function.
And every time I ask "Why," it latches itself onto "our"
along with an S for "selfish",
and everything becomes "Yours" and I don't know the concept
of "mine" anymore,
because I is for invisible. Because I am only invisible to you,
but I have written letters to you in invisible ink,
traced the very outline of my deepest thoughts
And etched them into syllables, words, sometimes coherency.
Carved them into the familiarity in my arms,
And stored them away within the pockets of my faded jeans.
N is for the times I am
Never enough. Whether it be in your eyes, my eyes,
Or the world's. Because I can stand anger and hatred,
I have braved more storms than you will ever realize.
But I cannot handle disappointment,
It finds its ways to my veins, and slices them open,
Charcoal drops of worthlessness dripping,
Turning into ink splatters on a crisp white button-up.
And G is for giving up.
I am really just boring, after all.