urge

the urge
to leave,
to disappear,
to wash the blood from my hands,
though none of it was ever mine.

the only urge i cant escape
the one that branded me
a narcissist,
a selfish whore,
call it what you want 

because sometimes,
the comfort of leaving
feels warmer than the comfort of their touch.

but the urge has a cause.
it doesn’t bloom
from my fleeting father,
nor my suffocating mother.
it stems from the eight-year-old
who held herself together
until she couldn’t anymore
numb, zoned out, blank,
waiting for a window, a person, just something
for a slit of light to come through.

they called it optimism.
but that isn’t optimism
it’s raw survival.

turn away from the frost inside me,
and you’ll still ask
why I’m hopeful.

im not, 

im selfish, 

waiting for my day, 

a day i wont have regrets, nor blood nor blame, 

hopeful for that sliver of chance
that if I leave,
if I escape,
if I fight,
maybe-just maybe
I’ll reach the the other side
no matter how long it takes.

so yes,
if there’s one thing about the narcissist,
it’s that she will leave
leave in search of light,
to free herself
from the prison of her own mind

–justjokes