I have tally marks slice all up my wrist
My arm, and my legs, a lined up list
Each ****** carving is a count
For every heart stabbing doubt
Short cuts arent always the answer
But neither are banaged broke bridges
I have counted how many times I've be slaughtered
I've kept track, the scars should prove it
Hiding the ****** count is as difficult as hiding a murdered body
We cover it with long sleeves and jeans...
And even when people see them, 99% of them dont give a dang
....Very few have said anything
...and those who have...
I know truly love .e til the very day I die....
It's time to stop counting...
And time to start looking up a d walking forward
And let the scars show
Yes they are a reminder of the pain
But also a reminder of
WHAT I AM FIGHTI F AGAINST TO BE!!!!
.....the words will always hurt more the the blade...
I counted the number of times
you weren't there for me
in tally marks on my wrist.
Another tally on my scoreboard.
It was only supposed to have one,
But now, there were four diagonal lines.
Twenty x "now what have you done?"
We pretended there was a chance,
But every mark after III was a pawn.
A new player in my game of control,
Facing guns that were already drawn.
Sharp breath, arched back, closed eyes.
Each time, I felt something new.
His scent, his breath, his voice...
But none of it was what I felt with you.
Number 8 had tattoos and baby blues.
A first for both, but so much more.
He was 1 for the first date, first time.
...Does that make me a *****?
I'll always hate the number 10
Because I woke up to him touching me.
He promised it was "just cuddling."
I still got insomnia out of necessity.
"Look in my eyes, don't say a word."
Number 18, passion, attraction, allure.
My biggest secret was that I loved him.
And...he was my teacher.
Secrets and embarrassments.
More reasons for regret.
Let me show you the truest part of me:
Ruined by men, both evil and passionate.
Not an amulet, an off white vertebrae; bone.
Brass wire, a loop at one end.
It bends as to make sure this will fit.
A gauge that measures mesmerization,
And we both must get along, but
Not because we're not tough enough:
Most of us aren't soft right yet.
So many stiffs, folly after folly.
The whole carful of loose cadavers,
Dangling, their feet hang with wet snow
Not even musk deer pop up,
They've all gone. Roosting in a parabol,
With X's sprayed to their groins.
Burning pop couples
Doing it like laboratory mice. Capybaras
Hiss, my own burnt blood is also
Turn the cup upside down and
See the fire's balmy lachrymal opaque
Moss while it does not drip.
This is the story of man you asked me about;
Devoid of a muzzle, fur onto his chest; coarse
Hair in a garland.
It is the God of a tool that buzzes into the night.
A plateau for this most sensible study.
We feel another coming.
And when you awoke, your larval tongue
My eye mush, a song of verse and melancholy.
This half list of greatness, a tally we both wish to see.
Deaths are like tally marks on your mind.
They are charcoal black tick marks
that build on your subconscious,
never fading to scars.
Some are merely penciled in,
like the death of an aunt you never knew.
However the death of someone close cuts deep into you;
a constantly fresh wound.
Never scarring, never healing, it only festers.
But watching someone die burns a dark wound into your brain,
a permanent scorched mark,
the insignia of a life taken forever,
branded onto your thoughts.
We can never remove our tallies and
they only build over time,
our mind growing darker from past sufferings.
But when all that remains is what caused it in the beginning: death.
you become just another tally on those you loved.
I uploaded this poem on behalf of a friend who wrote it.
All credit to them. (There were minor adjustments)
— The End —