Stains

March 20, 2010
She talks,
I listen.
What else can I do?
She's done and walks away.

I run to the bathroom,
Slam the door and lock it.
I get in my bag and find my old friend
I pull it out and admire the precious blade

I pierce my wrist with the tip,
Dragging the blade down my arm.
I feel not pain, but relief
Watching the blood drip off my arm, staining the towel

The towel is now stained the same way as my soul.
Stains that will never be gone,
Only covered.
Covered by all the things I should be

All the happiness I'm supposed to feel
All the beauty I'm supposed to see in the mirrow.
And all the love I'm supposed to know.
But that's not what I see, feel, or know.





Post a Comment

Be the first to comment on this article!

bRealTime banner ad on the left side
Site Feedback