For some,
strength comes in the
shape of butterflies.
We grip the blade in
search of redeement, but then,
drop them, and replace scars,
with pen marks.
For scribbles on the skin,
are much less intrusive,
than the lines we make to last,
to try and remind ourselves,
that mistakes aren't permanent,
but the punishments are.
Just like a ****** scene.
The blood stains are gone,
but so are the people,
even though they never really walked away.
Life is a contradiction.
You roam the earth,
just to watch yourself and others,
slowly fade away,
you're left with what you started.
But memories will never fade.
you'll walk through life on tiptoes,
never fully able to let go.
Using your skin as your canvas,
and sharp objects as a paint brush
to create jagged lines in seas of red and white,
where you know you need no other color,
because red speaks the truth.
The truth in which cigarette smoke just couldn't bring,
because the smoke filters in the very same thing
which may very
well be killing him,
as we speak.
As lines are drawn and crossed,
you swear to a god that,
you hope will save him,
promising that you'll never touch the poison again,
if he could just spare the only good thing,
you have left,
And that's him.
It may very well be cancerous.