Broken people bleed.
They bleed
when no one is looking.

It seeps from
cuts inside,
cracks
from dull knives

dragging against wrists.
Knifes too sharp
that leave
scars never quite healed right.

Faded, the impression never leaves,
indelibly pressed into the brain.
Painful secrets not yet told.
Like a memory that you can’t repress
it follows you.

You say,
‘forgive and forget’
but how can you forget
when it lingers
like his fingers on
my thigh, a
gentle contrast to the horrors just been.

Contrast between fists
slamming into walls,
my walls,
my ribs.

Begging forgiveness for his sins.
Clouds of tobacco smoke and *****,
warming insides,
hot shower burn my skin,
for if the dead can only feel cold
the burning heat
must mean I’m alive.

Broken people bleed flowers,
blossoming into rivers
of red.