The most wretched part about my body is that crown glass grows inside my marrows, my cries stem from how broken and torn my tissues have felt all these years.
They say I smell like burnt blood, and that I sound like silver being scratched, she lives on the milliseconds of life, they say. My eyes have been mistaken for tin bullets, which have been no match to tin soldiers.
Those poor little boys, with their poor little fantasies, touching themselves, while they envision a glass-clad woman, who smells like burnt blood and makes them squeal at little hints.
And yet they'll ask, why am I scared of love? It's probably the only emotion that can tame me, the only emotion I am weak enough to run from. After all, I grow crown glass inside my marrows, feisty isn't even close to what they call me.
But the brazen dichotomy will always remain, that I seek refugee from the very thing I am running.
***
One last poem before we wrap up 'Look at me, Rain'! ;)
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