They squeezed at her chest,
The words said to her in jest.
Fire lit beneath her skin,
Where the pain was caged within.
She was giving up.
It all began with a little cut.
It began with the words said to hurt her,
The blades used to slice her up.
The marks on her arms,
And the non-existent pitied frowns.
She was never for pity,
But she just wants someone to care.
Someone to pet her hair,
Someone to tell her they'll always be there.
Someone she doesn't deserve,
But someone she wishes she had.
Someone to get mad on her behalf,
And stand up for her,
When she couldn't find the strength,
To smile for a minute during the day.
The day when she took that knife,
Used for comfort,
To slit her wrists.
A little to deep.
Not enough to kill her,
But to make her weep.
And she's gone,
Given up.
Empty.
Broken.
Defeated.
Dead inside.
And still the air is silent.
There are no screams,
No comforting words.
No hand to takeaway the hurt.
Only the silence.
Because that's all she ever deserved.
YOU ARE READING
Stitches
PoetryThey held her mouth shut. They whispered in her ear and bled into her heart. But she never knew where to start. These feelings that she just wants to be done, They sit in the back of her mind like a loaded gun. So she squeezes the trigger a litt...
