Cinderblock walls a mile high, covered in thick brambles of insults and insecurities.
Red webbed bruises laced with black.
Guilt-laden eyebrows, bushy with life's burdens.
A carefully trained smirk of nonchalance splits the pale lips of fated cheekbones,
Whites of eyes bloodshot with freshly smoked buds designs.
Laughter of a child heavied with unrest and lonely nights.
Sleep comes only with the knowledge of another morning.
You draw moths, not to the broken surface,
but the flaming soul behind it.
A trap that causes many a hand to ooze with crimson in hopes of soothing your open wounds.
But words will not reach you,
Cries will not move you,
And I cannot fix you.