i am so tired of my wrists being a battlefield — the shrines for all the times i fell — they all keep falling apart, and nothing lasts long enough for all these wounds to turn into scars.
maybe the problem is that scars mean you're healing. maybe the problem is that i'm not.
i have worn this skin away — long shunned by softness and each day, i cannot fathom how i can ever manage to hold gentle things — press them against my chest when everything i hold bleeds and breaks, including me.
i wish my tongue was more made for poems and not for dry-swallowed poppies; the moon flinches at the very sight.
i flinch too.
and i am so tired of my entire skin being a battlefield when no one can see the casualties buried quickly — buried well.
and oh, what i'd give to be soft enough to grow flowers on graveyards — and soft enough not to break myself.