The scars on her body
line her arms like
a zebra's skin:
cut,
arm,
cut,
arm,
cut,
arm,
cut,
arm,
cut -
and on and on.
They go down
from her shoulder
to her elbow
and into masked flesh.
I do my best not to
stare,
to let my eyes wander down
this map of obvious sorrow,
knowing
it's not polite
and
that I'd not want the same.
Still, though I try not,
my eyes are moths
to a horrid flame.
I've already got the story in my head,
even though
she's not aware.
She's oblivious to my musings,
my mind racing, spinning.
Yes, I'm wondering about hell
against
the backdrop of a normal day
that she plays a part in,
acting like it's all okay.
Maybe she was once lonely,
and needed some company.
She dug the blade in
to make "friends"
that would never go away.
She wanted what couldn't betray,
though the scars
that are raised
don't hesitate
to give her secrets away.
Maybe things were going
wrong
somewhere
and she blamed herself,
hurting to cause
subsequent misery.
(Is everything as it should be -
or
is she still crying,
though she's smiling?)
Maybe she was broken glass
that was discarded in a bin.
A pretty picture unloved
by
herself and others.
Maybe she knew
she needed to be found
so
she tore herself
to lead the way
to the shards in disarray.
Maybe she became numb
to everything else
except pain,
so she bled
in order to feel
what still remained.
Her arms are an old testament
that I cannot read.
I'm left to my own
to ask
what it might all mean -
and wishing
I could have found her
before she began etching
those letters
that only she can see.
I'm haunted by the bitter reality
that life
isn't
always pretty.
YOU ARE READING
To the World...(A Collection of Poems)
PoetryZelda Aurora Gabriel has been writing poetry from the time she was 13. She is now 25. Different from others her age, poetry became an outlet and a means of understanding a world that often didn't understand her. "To the World" is a compilation and a...
