sickly thoughts of self-harm
bubble from the void
nothing as trivial as cutting
but the cold steel
pressed hard…
lace wing butterflies flutter
lighting ever-so-gently
colorful powder floats in soft breezes
as my reddened fist
turns to uncover
the guts of gods beauty…
bile rises from the depths
contorting my face into a scowl
hate filled eyes enraged
stare into the cracked mirror
happy fun time is over, again…
I awake with a start
too much fried food
and the anniversary of Mother’s death
have me in a very unsettled spot
wishing I could sleep
thinking about my estranged daughter
lost within myself….