Her lips were bolted shut
the rusting lock, black and brown
broken with cracks lining up the front.

Words strewn across the page
from her fingertips
as she filled her pen with blood
from the sink.

Her calloused hands rubbing against
one another, hoping to receive warmth
instead of the coldness that surrounded her.

Unlike the rest, she had none to say
and plenty to write
with a voice that hopes for a smile in the day
and a red knife at night.

Taking a needle and thread,
she sow her lips in colours of blue, black
and red
and watched the way the coloured lines
intertwined with each other
unlike the vintage lock before them
while her gaze fell upon the eyes watching her,
situated in a grey land.©