Bailey Young/The Baron

I’m filled with these voiceless affirmations of emotional relentlessness; they eat me up from the inside at times, making me feel like a swine.   

Regrets—something I have a lot of; it never seems to end, and I can never comprehend.   

Should I have told you about my shining heart? I had a strong feeling you’d tear my gut apart.   

Should I have helped her that night? Because I’m thinking about it tonight.   

Should I have raised my voice that day? That feeling turns my skin pale.   

I froze, I paused, I rose; it’s a clause.   

You are deep in my bones; I hope you don’t bleed through my skin. She knows she’s living a vivid dream.   

The famine my actions have caused and the flood my tears brought upon—all that came a little too late; that town is no longer my own.   

What did you make me do?   

Why did you give me that bruise?   

I was bleeding, and I thought so were you because I saw blood on your hands, under your eye, but it turns out it wasn’t even yours.   

You lie; you seem so good at it; it comes so naturally, just like the rain that comes after a bad night.   

You’re pathologically destructive; why do you try to be so constructive?   

You’re living a façade, an actor with no movie to act for—just your dreadful life and your spinning web of dirty cries.   

Why do you cry so much?   

You did this; why do you blame the world for your roaring screams?   

Stop living this dirty dream, hoping one day you’ll repent for all your filthy sins.   

You scare me, and you narrow my view; please leave me alone before I get up tomorrow and bury you.