Tiny Gashes
The follicles that scratch into my skin
drawing the crimson stickiness to ebb from where it once harbored within.
The pinching sensation as it tingles at the air,
breathing and dying on the tanned surface.
How I come to know its beautiful pain,
but at the same time,
my mind ignores and shoves the follicles of my nails deeper into my arm.
As I wish for the world to swallow me whole;
for the ground to gape open beneath me and take apart my essence bit by bit.
For these people to never know I was here in the first place
and that they won't remember me.
How they'll forget a face that once shoved her nails so far into herself,
that she couldn't scratch,
couldn't pinch,
couldn't squeeze and couldn't tug;
at the beautifully fragile pieces of skin that held her small frame together.
They'll forget the girl who never raised her hand in class,
for fear of being the know-it-all.
They'll forget the girl who sat in the corner at lunch alone,
because she couldn't bear it in her heart to be rejected with "that seats taken".
And they'll forget the girl who cared too much.
Who screamed and cried into pillows each night
while her phone spun out in irridescent lights that flickered with unsent messages.
They'll forget the girl...
Until she winds up lifeless on the headlines.
YOU ARE READING
Stuck between the Pages
PuisiSmall poems with no real meanings from a writer lost in dreaming. Also, for even better poems... go read Arlahndo's poems called "The Withdrawal Effect."
