On the path of blooming, path of clotting,
path of rinsing the cuts, as I see it turn into a scar,
my steps seldom falters
except for the moments of suffocation,
paste on it stings, subsiding
as another knife sinks in.
The shower, from stream to vapors
and tension releases as my skin changes its shade,
out there, is a hand waiting, asking me to rest;
but who takes a mirror seriously?
Alas, still a little part of me whispers
Maybe.
-She said, staring at the water trailing down her feet.
YOU ARE READING
THE GIRL WHO SPOKE POETRY
PoetryThe thing about pain is, it makes you question.. what makes you human? ____________ **Not cliche, I repeat, Not cliche, WARNING, not cliche**
