growing up or something

tables bend over backwards for me

rolling taunts between teeth,

leering behind safety nets

of memories still drilled in my concrete wall

(ones I want to scratch off till my fingernails bleed,

tear apart and throw them behind padlocks

as I decide to step through muddy apathy) ~

I've always been the one who they've stabbed in the heart.

Never thought

it would

be me.

I'm sorry.

(am I?)

Because relief cascades to my toes,

and guilt floods right back up.

Will I always be stuck?