the blade runs along my skin.
not in the way it used to:
purposely breaking down the protectant.
this time, mowing the green, green grass
and flowers off it.
feeling the seething pang,
i scowl.
i see the red.
oh, but you're a lady,
echoes into my head.
they say, "beauty is pain,"
why don't i feel any redemption?
was the blood for nothing?
you do it wrong, you know. you're supposed to bleed.
he must not know that all i see is red.
this must be fruitless.
no matter how much you cry,
how deep you cut,
how silent you get while brooding,
how many miles of distance?
how high and sturdy are these walls again?
i ask myself.
not high enough, not strong enough.
his taunting words scramble behind my eyes.
you're
supposed
to
bleed.
is this the weight of womanhood?
