Sticks and stones may break my bones but words will never hurt me.
The words that spill from your lips are reminiscent of the first golden sunset rays of summer, spinning tales of freedom.
But demons no longer come in pairs
they arrive in threes and fours, and occasionally sixes and twelves.
Leaving bruises on the soul and marks on the heart; allowing blood to bleed black.
Penetrating the only place that was allowed to be safe.
Breaking, biting, bloody bones
No longer hold up on their own
Fragmented pieces never heal true
just mend
Words preying on the deepest parts that kill the light that you push into my soul.
Words yelling and screaming and ripping into everything that has been built up.
"Waste of flesh, useless, worthless," they say
Pushing, pulling, fighting
The words are wrong, aren't they?
They have to be wrong because
Even if sticks and stones break my bones, words can kill me, you, all of us.
The black blood starts bleeding red as the poison leaves the veins.
Wounds scar
And the air goes back into your lungs
YOU ARE READING
Poems for the Broken
PoetryPoetry is what keeps the world turning. People have often use it as a coping mechanism, it is no different for me.
