I etch a scar from my heart
Transfer it to you, the blue that coats it
coaxes venom back into snakes.
Ink poisoning is better than lead poisoning,
the moistening of lips from the ink
sinks into the bloodstream more positive
than the poisoning of lead into the blood.

I won't colour in between the lines,
I'm combining the pain, the mess
the dressed up confessions of sickness,
I'm the wicker of a candle set on fire
and you are the canvas I will burn.
You may think you're the subject
but we are no couplet, you're capulet
And I a Montague, and upon this view
I will cherish memories of alchemy & of poison.
You're roaming in the background
across the scenic route of my painting,
to be frank you're staining my conscience
to be honest you're the opus that feels so soulless,
the hopeless denial.

You ran marathons across the yellow tapes,  
just to break into an already broken space,
you prey on with your own cherished hate,
while you remain snugged in front of a screen,
uploading scene after scene of horrific child abuse.
You laugh with tormenting captions that proves
you are an addition to the abuse on innocent lives;
running taunting lines that read the black eyes
make her blue eyes look even more cute,
as a collective you cheered on abuse in all kinds
and with like minds you cheered on crime:
from **** to abuse, from violence to hatred-
so that the safest place would only exist
with the absence of you and your kind.

I was eighteen, I watched my friend break into tears;
says her worst fears are those among her own peers,
says her worst fears are those demonic digital fiends
that seems to only want to drag her underground
till her cries barely made a sound she says it's hard,
I'm alive but god do I wish I wasn't, I wish I wasn't,
and the rotten stench of online monsters stained her soul.
I was eighteen when I watched my friend lowered into a hole,
a hole that was the perfect symbolism of her dreams and hopes.

You and your kind are the demonic figure reflected in a mirror
of a person suffering from eating disorders. The distorted view
is just your after image projected onto a live being's mirror,
you place handguns into adults and teens who suffer
from suicidal thoughts because a buffer of your hateful words
seems to hurt the most, you are the ammunition
that screams to loud for anyone to hear or to listen,
you are the chair that encourages every hurting mind
to climb up and take a swing off a rope,
you are the evil that sees people jumping from buildings,
screaming that children aren't worth living in this world
so you direct them to hurl themselves off a broken cliff,
you are the hateful comments on a family breaking apart,
you are the scars on a burn victim that remains noticeable,
you
you are every broken tooth and nail in a world that is decaying;
and if we're all so broken then the token for breaking us goes to you.

Will we ever learn to shut you out,
before a home turns to a house.

When I was a kid I used to play hide and seek a lot,
take it from me, the biggest tree isn't the best hiding spot.
When I was a kid I also used to smile and cry a lot,
I guess it was part of my game, disappear behind a tree,
avoid anyone who was seeking and let my brown eyes run
like the sun casting its lights over the cliff of a waterfall.

I remember the first time I had met and talked to Sarah,
she caught me playing hide and seek as I usually did.
I remember thinking it wasn't fair that she had found me
because there wasn't supposed to be anyone seeking.
She had asked me what I was doing behind the tree
before I could answer she told me to count to thirty,
so I counted. Being a kid; counting to thirty was difficult,
it was intricate enough to count to ten or even twenty
but thirty felt like an eternity to a six year old.
I told her I wasn't going to count because I couldn't
and I wouldn't satisfy the request of a complete stranger.

This was way before the stranger is danger days
where you could play in a park  with a forty-five
year old man and no one would bother wondering why
a forty-five year old man is sitting at a park.
These were the days where the dark sky doesn't signify
a time to come back inside the house but a time to explore,
explore the vast stars that sat above our heads, explore-
explore the core of the earth with a plastic sand shovel.

Sarah explained to me that I was wasting time behind the tree
that she could see in the future and that I will be happy.
I didn't believe her, I asked her how she could have known
and she told me that you reap what you have sown
and to a kid that was in itself a mystery, mainly because
I didn't know the words reap or the word sown.
Sarah was about eleven when I first met her
I've seen her a few more times since then but then
became moments gone and breezes of wind blown away.

I remember Sarah playing hide and seek with me
she said I shouldn't hide behind a tree because it's too easy-
it's too easy to find a kid hiding behind a tree,
it's too easy to see that the kid will pick a tree.
I asked her how can I do things differently,
how could I ever get my chance to win at hide and seek,
I remember the weeks followed; perfecting a strategy
of running and dodging the seeker in between trees,
interestingly enough the fact remained that I still lost.
I glossed over my different plans, wondering if I can
find a different way to win this game.
I asked her how come she could find me every time
and she'd remind me of her age, but to say that-
a tortoise is wiser than a human because of its old age
is to say that a page written a decade before
could tell of how people are feeling today.
It just wasn't the truth that remained in my brain.
I told her she was lying and that she was just trying
to hide the fact that she was cheating by not counting.

When I was a kid I used to play hide and seek a lot,
take it from me, the biggest tree isn't the best hiding spot.
When I was a kid, I would always used to cry a lot,
but as I grew up that was something I tried to stop,
and I succeeded in most instances.

I don't know how much things I haven't apologised for yet
I don't know how much time I have left to say all these things.
I sometimes stay up at night and think of the wasted apologies
and the lack of acknowledgement for people I take for granted.
I remember waking up with pins and needles in my feet,
wondering if I walked will the pins learn to make me bleed.
I don't know how much my family knows I love them,
how often I think about them in times of troubles
or even if the rubbles of the foundations that hold me up
is enough to leave a footstep trail to where I will lie.
I wonder how many missed opportunities for apologies I have lost to time.
I wonder how many missed chances for I love yous
which would change the blue coating my soul.
I wonder if I'll ever know what it was like to not think back.
Before the thoughts fade to black, I'm accustomed to this.