She likes the night. It makes her feel alive. Strong, free.
But maybe it was never meant to be.
Her nights are spent with a blade in her hand,
Her whimpers the music of a band.
At night,
She lets her fright,
Take flight.
Her face contorts in an emotion she doesn't know,
It's the only time she allows her feelings to show.
At night she listens to her mom and dad bicker,
And her desire to live flickers,
Much like a candle,
She's losing her grip on the handle,
That she has on her life.
It's whirling,
Swirling away.
Sometimes she thinks night is where she ought to take flight,
Launch herself off of a roof in the moons light.
Fall to the ground with a sickly splatter,
Then her problems wouldn't matter.
She could be free,
Her life ended before it truly began.
She would no longer be a part of man,
But of the swirling darkness.
She thinks that maybe she can free herself from the harshness of living this way.
She's right.
But the price?
Blood splattered,
Hair matted,
Eyes glazed,
Her body razed.
She likes the night,
It's here where she dreams of taking flight.
Soaring into the air,
Breaking free.
No noise to blare,
And hurt her ears.
No jeers,
To bring about her fears.
No mirrors,
To bring her to tears.
No scars marking her arms anymore.
No blood dripping across the floor.
No lies,
Swarming around her like flies.
Only the color red,
As she bled.
She likes the night.
It's when she dreams.
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...
