Resentment

They say resentment is venom,

Disfiguring the face of time spent

Whispering sweet nothings and

Distorting layers of comfort with

Sand.

Pox-marked by an internal plague

Festering wounds of regret for

Words unspoken and the weight of

Lies is carried on the backs of okays

And neverminds.

Our “don’t worries” and “forget its”

Become a rhythm we can’t escape

From and our understanding seems

To bar us from and yet within

Frustration we despise and deny

Inside.

Yet the cure is as simple as speaking

Up, but we can’t bring ourselves to

Complain for it seems vain to expect

Change when clearly we mean less to

Them and need them more than

They will ever need us.