Ghosts

Over that hill is the graveyard
Lined with moss covered tombstones
Each one erected in memoriam of
One of the millions of
Tortured ghosts created,
Every time a tiny piece of my soul
Was crucified
On the alter of your ego,
Slashed with swords of your hate,
pummeled by the raining arrows
of your apathy and disdain.
You have undertaken
An excruciatingly slow,
A pathologically eternal,
Emotional genocide.
The ghosts scream at night,
If you listen closely,
you can feel their desperate wails,
Echoing silently, pulsing
Through the empty caverns
That now are all that's left within.
Their voices might be silenced
But they never stop screaming
My empty husk quivers and tremors
With their angry despair.
"Just fly away, fly far far away."
The sorrowful requiem reverberates
With each beat of my broken heart.
At the same time,
You "lovingly" clasp my hands in yours,
Gaze deeply into my eyes,
wondering with feigned grief
And brows furrowed
in over exaggerated confusion
why I am so "distant."