Bullied
All I want to do is punch, and kick, and scream, and rip my hair, and tear at my clothes as I fall to the ground wracked
and enveloped in silent screams that have gone on deaf ears. Too afraid.
Too ashamed.
Of what?
Because of this. The past, the hairline scars
only I can see in a blazing red burning into my flesh like lava, constant. A thrumming
phantom ache.
Almost as tormenting as the ghosts of the memories, and the memories I’ve changed to better suit me, and their remains.
Like a frankenstein and whispering in my ringing ear all the things that my silence drowns out. - Peace.
Not today but eventually cease,
something to change to drown out the - Peace.
Not in the virtuous hold but in the gratuitous embrace of a chance to see - Peace.
To not think because I don’t want those dangerous daggers piercing behind my eyes
and through my skull. Thinking stops.
Though gaping wounds and hairline fractures
blazing in red to my own eyes fester, the chance to open the cracks so to let it out.
Cleanse my wounds and let them scar over in a blazing red, as if to say
“I have survived”
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