Toxic People

Toxic people don’t know that they’re toxic. They swim in their ugliness that they mistake as pretty. It’s tragic, really. Their love is fear. Their compliments, complaints. They see the entire world through clouded eyes and hear through muddled ears. Toxic people walk the planet with all their years, dead weight around their ankles-wondering-screaming really-at the sky—-“why can’t I fly?” They sleep in invisible coffins. Eyes wide shut, so even in death, they won’t get got. Woundedness is their bouquet. the flowers they bring to their own funeral. Hatred, a mere badge, that acts like armor. They’ve got it all figured out. Living one same day, every day of their lives. Pain. Pain. Pain is all they know how to know. Black holes, sucking in all the light around them. They scavenge good vibes to leave destitution and emptiness in its place. To save face. The face they show is the mask they know best, though not real. Though not sane. Shells of souls that once wielded young, vibrant bodies, now rotting, on purpose. They forgot their purpose, so they stress and strain over the little to nothing they have left. Stuff. Grains of rice, really. All attached to their body of pain. Desperate to hold on to it, whatever it is and leave nothing. No trace of themselves, though they trace themselves back to the last failures they remember—-and stay there. Toxic people don’t know that they’re toxic. They don’t know that there’s an odor when they speak. It’s the smell of dead things being risen. The past, long dead, being resurrected. the stench of unforgiveness being dragged around through each day. pain. pain. pain. Leaving stains all over…wherever they go…