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red proof

You didn't love me.
Not even a little.
Not in the quiet way I needed—
not in the way that could’ve saved me.

So I carved it into skin
because I needed someone
to see something real.
And pain?
Pain shows up.
Pain answers.

Lines on my arms like tally marks—
not counting days,
but the moments I survived
wanting to disappear.

The blade was a lover that never left.
It kissed without shame,
whispered, “You are here. You are real.”

They say: “Don’t.”
I say: “Then help me feel something else.”
Because your silence
was louder than any scream I ever made
into my own flesh.

And maybe the blood
was just a truth I could finally hold,
when your love was nothing
but a ghost that wouldn’t
haunt me back.

Copyright © blaire hensley

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Book: Reflection on the Important Things