Hello Poetry
Submit your work and get some sparkles! Create free account
Moment, A suicide letter I write in 8th grade. I heat metal chains with my straightener. Press. Watch as sink holes begin to expand in my hand. Maybe, A list of considerations. Starting to see the crimson crust, the weeping sores, furrowed skin, the combust of myself as beautiful. Mimic, I think I am copying my mother. She sinks into her sheets, a mess soaking into a towel. Us only speaking when she finds something to yell about. Maniac, The day I forgot to wear long sleeves. My mother takes my straightener, metal chains, scissors, “You’re crazy” Pens curler, pencils, I’m Crazy. Maternal, I try to find a mother in a therapist. Scar cream fills the sink holes. The left over sores only remind me of the depressed image of ill bed sheets. Moral, Learning that misshaping myself would never fix the sick in her voice. Watching as my hand Extinguished the charcoaled Sores with new skin. Memory, Looking at my left hand and the scars that have become only small ashes of a fire. Only a moment. ©DelaneyMiller
0
Mar 5, 2014
Mar 5, 2014 at 9:37 PM UTC
Moment
Moment, A suicide letter I write in 8th grade. I heat metal chains with my straightener. Press. Watch as sink holes begin to expand in my hand. Maybe, A list of considerations. Starting to see the crimson crust, the weeping sores, furrowed skin, the combust of myself as beautiful. Mimic, I think I am copying my mother. She sinks into her sheets, a mess soaking into a towel. Us only speaking when she finds something to yell about. Maniac, The day I forgot to wear long sleeves. My mother takes my straightener, metal chains, scissors, “You’re crazy” Pens curler, pencils, I’m Crazy. Maternal, I try to find a mother in a therapist. Scar cream fills the sink holes. The left over sores only remind me of the depressed image of ill bed sheets. Moral, Learning that misshaping myself would never fix the sick in her voice. Watching as my hand Extinguished the charcoaled Sores with new skin. Memory, Looking at my left hand and the scars that have become only small ashes of a fire. Only a moment. ©DelaneyMiller
delaney-miller
Written by
Mar 5, 2014
Mar 5, 2014 at 9:37 PM UTC
Request permission to use this poem