A story of slits scars and tears
There were silver blades that slid around her skin,
hesitant at first, as those fingers fumble,
second guessing.
She wants to stop hurting and she remembers why,
she was there in the first place,
and then slick. Blood.
Her hands tremble, her body gets cold,
blood flows, she is tired,
she drops the blade. She rests.
She stumbles across the across the room,
grabs a sweater, cleans the mess,
walks out like nothing is wrong.
As a kid she was afraid of the dark,
the angel lamp always lit,
Now the velvet curtains are drawn.
The darkness is where her heart rests,
where no eyes judge her, no fingers point at her body,
and her eyes ease out the pain they bear.
Sometimes a bottle of pills get empty,
into the bin they go, suspicious? Dog spilled them over I’m sure,
and in the toilet, she regurgitates what her body rejects.
Her hollow red eyes of the sleepless nights,
her hands porous of the pain,
her last step she might one day take,
too fired to fight another day,
to her grave she will take her stories,
of her slits and scars and tears.