Would anybody
Want me
With these wounds
Would they
Find proof of
Life
From the quiet
Beat of my
Blood?

You’ve brought me into this world,
and you’re the reason I want to leave it

You were supposed to mend
my wounds when I got hurt
not be the reason behind them

You were supposed to protect
me from any danger,
but you were the danger itself

Your piercing eyes and
cruel hands still haunt me,
and I cannot find any peace

I needed you to tell me
I’m safe when I was scared,
but nothing is more
scarier than you, mother

"my scars are so open."
i say. shaking. tears mixing with the numbness in my eyes.

                                                       "so... not scars, then"
                             you say. uncertain of what to do with someone so...
                                                           ­                ... in shambles

"if not scars, i don't know what to call them."
looking at your polished skin. my irises cracking open.

                                                          ­                "wounds."
                                       ­          as if you know what that word means.

"but wounds would have healed by now. i am not supposed to still be broken. my blood should have scabbed, my skin grown over. the thorns are gone, why not the pain?"
each word growing more quiet. my hands trace the cuts and smears follow my fingers.

                                                      "­are you sure you aren't doing this to
                                                                ­       yourself?"
                                              the pen in your hands hasn't made any
                                 words. i wouldn't know what to write either.

"i put down the knife a long time ago."
memories cascade.

                                                  "no, no. not with a knife made of silver.
                   a blade to make those marks would have to be made of
                                                              ­         thought."
                                  you try to remain patient. it's okay if you don't.

"oh."
and
i
shatter

There is broken stone under my feet,
toppled pillars, their carved surfaces
reduced to dust now filtering through
the stray rays of light.
The windows now wide open
like wounds, like the skies and seas.
This fallen cathedral is a signal,
this is holy ground
you may never tread on.

These ruins are my birthplace,
the dying light, my mother.
These stones are my bones,
the fractured columns witness
my recreation.
I am new,
fresh,
unbroken,
untouched

And as I open my eyes for the first time,
the wind fills my lungs and kisses my lips.
And I am in love once more.
I am in love with the light
breaking through the clouds,
in love with a warmth
that I've never felt before.
In love with the seas beyond my walls
and the ivy beneath my feet.
I am in love with life
and what I am slowly becoming

Fiercely in love with the breaking
and the tearing: the shedding of old skin.
And I am happy
I am wild
I am free

I am home

she paints her sorrows
with metaphors and word collages-
each stroke spells her heartbreaks well.
and her eyes are floodgates
with tears free-falling...
drenching her soul's weak outer shell.

shards of broken clouds split the skies;
cloudburst is dressed in crimson hue.
gray hearts are cold, silent and smug,
all rainbows fade to shades of blue.

purple art sprawl on her skin;
this paper girl keeps painting still...
and every touch from her vintage brush,
leaves deep wounds that would never heal.

she's everything creased and crumpled-
a flat canvas embossed with scars.
her soul is pale- a torn sheet trampled.
her life, a chain of dying hours.

and when she thought love could save her,
it just tore her into feeble shreds.
her heart was burned in dinner date candles-
windswept trails of ashes spread.

lifetime wounds grace her pallid flesh,
as ice cold tears continue to spill
she's an artist of bruised tragedies
and this paper girl keeps painting still...

I want answers and an explanation
But it’s not my place to pry
And pick at the scabs
While you’re healing