Three in the morning

On 3am grievances

Wounds not given air to breathe
Wounds suffocating under the guise of being okay;
They scream for life, they scream at me
Won’t heal until I look their way,
Expose them, undress them, dissect them.

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Hidden behind a million smiles and
burning inside contagious laughs,
the wounds die, necrose, and leave behind
                foul-smelling nothingness

Yes, nothingness
The nothingness that consumes you at three in the morning
when all you hear is the sound of your heart,
your broken heart, beating against your ample chest.

Not like a treasure chest filled with gold
but like that made with glitter;
That which shines bright as the stars of old
but the truth is it’s just bitter.

Bitter like the taste of the wounds you left hidden
when you exclaimed “I’m okay!”
Okay with the thoughts that wake you at three in the morning
when all you hear is the sound of your heart,
your broken heart, beating against your ample chest.

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Not like a treasure chest filled with riches
but the chest of drawers harbouring shame;

Yes, shame
The shame that fuels your desire to be left alone
because all you want is for everyone to feel your pain.

The pain, the relentless pain
caused by the wounds you kept hidden;
The wounds that wake you at three in the morning
when all you hear is the sound of your heart,
your broken heart, beating against your ample chest.