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Aug 2018
she was war,
a collection of cuts and old scars,
armored in the pain of her past,
bones of ash and thorn.
blood like spilled scarlet wine
splashed across the bathroom floor,
she cried aloneβ€”
unseen,
unknown.
but for all the tears, she rose to her feet
and sat upon her barbwire throne
for these bones still ache,
this body still bleeds,
these lungs still breathe,
and this heart still beats,
still beats,
still beats.

β€” my heart is not a home for cowards
Marisol Quiroz
Written by
Marisol Quiroz  20/F/Newcastle upon Tyne
(20/F/Newcastle upon Tyne)   
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