My fingertips dance along your scars,
the ones I made and the ones you
caused.
'Truth' still shines faintly on your
wrist,
from the night you lied and threw a
fit.
This one right here, I stabbed you with
keys.
You threw me from the porch and
realized I do bleed.
Years of venom and violence abruptly
halted,
little eyes and ears blissfully
disrupted.
Though your tone gets sharp and
patience short,
and I pray every day to not become
what we were,
in the quiet when there's only beating
hearts,
slow breathing and staring into the
dark,
tracing your scars as my own begin to
sting,
that passion and pain from the past
begins to sing,
serenading and calling me home.
Then tiny hands reach and I only hear
the sweet call of 'mom.'
Oct 7, 2017
Oct 7, 2017 at 4:19 AM UTC
My fingertips dance along your scars,
the ones I made and the ones you
caused.
'Truth' still shines faintly on your
wrist,
from the night you lied and threw a
fit.
This one right here, I stabbed you with
keys.
You threw me from the porch and
realized I do bleed.
Years of venom and violence abruptly
halted,
little eyes and ears blissfully
disrupted.
Though your tone gets sharp and
patience short,
and I pray every day to not become
what we were,
in the quiet when there's only beating
hearts,
slow breathing and staring into the
dark,
tracing your scars as my own begin to
sting,
that passion and pain from the past
begins to sing,
serenading and calling me home.
Then tiny hands reach and I only hear
the sweet call of 'mom.'
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