Small bumps speckle my body
and I will pick
at them until I know for sure
and the imperfections
are no more than scabs and dried blood.
At least then I can tell you I got these spots from battling.
Speckled I’m the remince of insecurity
For however many petals I've picked,
For however many spells I've wicked,
For however many clocks I've ticked,
For however many needles I've pricked,
I still think about you.
I still think about you but not in the same sense.
there was a crack in my soul
then you picked me up and mended me
putting gold in the cracks
and then you dropped me again
now there are many cracks
and the dust of the fools gold you left behind-
why does thinking about not having her anymore make me feel so broken
Some of your words
into my skin,
correcting me in times of error
You picked at her.
At first, you only did small pieces,
just took inconsequential pinches off here and there.
However, soon you became greedy.
Got comfortable stripping her of who she was.
Turning her inside out.
You ignored the empty gaps in her heart,
and tried to bandage the larger chunks
with who you wanted her to be.
But learned, like everyone eventually does,
that bandages don't always solve the problem.
Sometimes we bleed too much.
And sometime we keep bleeding until we can't.
That's what you did to her.
You picked at her
until there was nothing left to pick at.
if i could've had anyone, i would've picked you
— The End —