Cleanliness and alabaster skin
wash down the sink drain,
tinted rosy pink with blood,
A lesson in art.
pain is not real unless it
is visible to the world.
I wear mine on my wrist
to showcase it well.
the scars left behind are
like trophies:
the bigger they are,
the more real my story is.
superficial lines leaving tiny,
feathered scratches will not
make the cut in a world as
tenacious as this.
deep and hard, I dig for
the truth that must lie
underneath my banana peel
legs that are bruised from age
I wonder if the word
"ugly" will scar in the
same way, as if it were branded
into my ever-growing stomach
an allergy to bandaids
Stops me from true
healing, especially when I am so
known to remove the scabs.
cannot be cured too quickly, afterall,
or else the emptiness felt in my
own body, the desire I tried to share,
was just a hoax
one left behind by the disfigured
monsters tramping around in my
battered brain, each starting war
over who shone brightest that day.
my body is a battlefield, littered
with the tongues of those with personal agenda, blood will never
wash out of this earth.
a masacre so vast that
even the soldiers weep at
the sight of this pockmarked land,
the very one they fight on daily.
I will never again be told that my suffering is superficial.
YOU ARE READING
I Was Once a Sunflower
PoetryThis poem collection will be about who I used to be, searching for myself, and living when I didnt want to. They are sad, this description serves as my trigger warning.
