Whelve

 Whelve:

N. to bury something deep, to hide

Feelings for you, dug six feet under

Buried deeper than the harshest blunder.

Broke their neck, unless you break my heart,

Put up the walls, right at the very start.

Pretended, acted, perfected the lies

Smothered down innocent, strangled cries.

Learnt to hide beneath insults and jokes

Learnt to ignore the painful, insistent pokes,

Learnt to give you up, to let you go

Learnt to never ever let you know.

Buried with my love, my humanity too

The very things that made me firm and true.

The pains I had to endure, to dig the grave

Chipped away at any emotions I had left to save.

A shell of what I once was, before you came along,

And stole my very essence, crushed it with a song.

Suffocated the flames of desire,

Burnt them alongside my funeral pyre.

For they would never be embraced, but a thorn

On the rose that was us, of all pretense shorn.

Thought I would let you stab them to death-

Let you see the light fade, see the last breath.

If nothing more, at least you’d give me that

But fear is a strong motivation, cold and exact.

Fear that you would abhor me, I’d lose your scent,

On my clothes after a day well spent.

So I stuck around, hollow eyed and empty

The mud covering my love aplenty.