Monday, July 2012
Her hands curl around her throat
Clawing and gnawing at the flesh
The copper scent of blood emanates from her lips
Chapped, pink and dried of blood, swollen like a blister
Why she does this to herself
No one knows
No one asks
Not even the little girl in the pink dress in the fragments of her mind
There are no answers
Not even of her dreams
That seem to haunt her very existence into soulless smithereens
She takes her breaths one at a time to ease her stormy mind
All the way at the back of her head
Is an unseen being waiting to bloom
From its sleepless state in the day
To the darkest hour of the night
>>k.l
