Skin as puff and red as wine,
Weirdly sliced dotted line.
They point and talk, "what is that?"
"Oh," I say, "Just my cat,"
Dark patch and crispy flesh,
As black as night, as dark as death.
"What's that burn!" they all do cry,
I cover my arm and slip on by.
Eyes bright red and laughing so loud,
Pass the joint and follow the crowd.
"You're on drugs?" they scream, "Thats a disgrace!"
I turn red and bow my face.
Tight red marks from tightened strings,
Scarily straight and scraping things.
"Ew, that's gross! What are they?"
I try and forget the things they say.
Bright blue bruises on shredded skin,
This is the world we are living in.
"Who hit you?" they pretend to care,
I just cover it with my hair.
And yet in church, my body dead,
And my soul hovers above my head.
They say they didn't see the signs,
Just the scrapes, bruises and dotted lines.
YOU ARE READING
Scars and Smiles (poetry about depression)
Poetry*A handful of poems that I wrote about suicide/self harm/disorders. Feel free to comment, vote, add, share and even mail me!* Ongoing Series. Enjoy.
