A little bird in the cage,
A cage with invisible bars
getting dense with every passing second,
The more she tries to free herself, the more it bites on her skin,
leaving scars, imprinting her mind and soul,
The cage has thorn around it,
Getting sharpen with every edgy spell of her kinship
The more they do, the more sharp are the thorns,
the more they cut, the heavier she bleeds.
The more they misinterpret her shrieks,
The more her wings get shattered.
A helpless little bird in the cage,
Lies in the pool of her blood,
Trying to get out of unbreakable rage.

I wasn't ready for you,
Wasn't ready for the pain,
Or the scars you'd leave behind,
That now seems in vain.

Darling, do not tell me that you are more beautiful with those drawings on your skin.
You've convinced yourself that they mean so much to you, and no one can even begin to understand, but I want you to know that the real beauty of an individual is more than simply skin deep.
That is why the ink on your skin does not impress me.
Everyone has stories and scars —I just choose not to wear mine on the outside.

My skin has become a tic-tac-toe board swarming with X’s
Fresh scars etched as new spaces are uncovered

I am running out of room
I am running out of time

Scars, that I’ve been hiding all my life
With scarves
Bruises, witness of what the truth is
Red eyes, brimming pearls of lost truces
Yelling, Blaming and banners of ‘Deserved it’
Never saw the alarm signs
They were not bold enough, like me
Always told that I’m fine, when I couldn’t even breathe
Maybe it’s been hash on me lately and
I don’t wanna make you too feel low
Maybe just pull me closer and never let me go
Cause the scars are now aching
And the bruises, deep blue
The pearls are now sold for ground breaking news
The yelling has me shaken; I stand with heart that’s broken
Too many times like my body
But you’re innocent, oddly.
Scarves, that have been hiding scars for long
I put them free
Cause I again, wanna feel like me.

Empty stares and glazed eyes,
dragging my feet walking to the tub.
Stripping down to my bare self,
helplessness washes over me.
I don't want to see what I've done to me,
the scars, fresh marks,
the guilt, shame, pain,
these wash over as I dip into
my memories.

It's funny how the things that used to hurt you
become distant memories
and silly jokes
once you realize that they were never meant to
do any more more than
hurt you.

Sometimes I try to count
just how many tears I wasted,
just how many times I desired to
take my life
over the things that gave me the strength
to face the life I'm living today.

How does one count the cracks in their heart?
I use the scars on my body.
They have faded over the years,
but it's less about the number
and more about the memories:
which ones were supposed to inflict pain,
and which were meant to be an escape?

Maybe someday I'll throw away the keepsakes,
the boxes under my bed filled with my first real heartbreak,
the clothes shared throughout my second,
the pictures taken to scrapbook my third,
and the gifts and letters that hopefully won't become symbols of my fourth.