The wait sickens me.
It’s like a kick in the throat,
Like a ball made of all the words I cannot say.
It’s a serpent in the stomach,
Growing faster, than my ability to adapt.
It’s a cry, waiting in the corner of my eyes,
bleeding for help.
Bleeding for hope, and for mercy.
They beg, cause my heart can not stand for itself anymore.
If this is love I don’t want it.
But this is not love.
You haven’t gave me love,
At least not without muttering cowardly.