The cyclical nature of my being always leads
Me to the same conclusion that treating
Myself like a doormat isn’t acceptable,
But nonetheless, I’ve become a receptacle
For empty insults slung with unknowing tongues,
Ideas that sting without the intention to harm.
I run on a hamster wheel,
Unable to feel the real effects
Of my own reaction to
Elation, a forgotten nation
Of contentment rather than contempt.
I cannot extract myself from this masochistic,
Cryptic resignation to put you over myself,
Even when your shelves are lined with unopened
Hearts, dusty from misuse and confusion.
I’ll remain here, waiting,
An unfortunate belating of my own
Return to happiness.