/ your eyes \
her nose was crooked
he had wanted to make her perfect
he had made her insecure
she had a lip ring
another one of his adventures
“you’re too soft, for your own good.”
she had three cracked ribs
tripping down the stairs
because she was dizzy
and not eating
“i will not take a fat bitch with me.”
she had a bruised cheek
a reminder that he was in control
besides “beauty is pain.”
her back was scarred
“don’t you dare try to run away again.”
her eyes had constellations in them
new-world galaxies, yet to be discovered
her eyes were perfect
but she still wore contacts
because she was scared
not of him
but of his actions
one piece
one piece was all she asked for
one peice of her left unchanged
thin lines drawn upon her wrist
skillfully
a pool of blood around her
“martha winters was declared dead at 8:28 on February 2nd, 1987.”
he didn’t realize his love
was the cause of her destruction
I Write Words
I wrote the first
at fifteen;
decorated a composition book
with pictures of bands
I'd barely heard
and stickers
and poorly drawn pictures
of the dispensable teen
I aspired to be.
The pages filled quickly:
doodles and ghastly,
God-fucking-awful
rhyme schemes,
silly suicidal banter
masked
as creative writing.
A few of those composition- keepers later,
(and a few unwanted views
of their revealing innards)
the words got bigger.
The rhymes gave way
to rhythm.
The banter
became a dialogue
between the reader
and
their self.
I could hide my heart
in plain view.
I found
I had been trying
too hard
to force words
into art.
The words came
when Poetry,
in her graceful,
welcome,
deceit
told me
I belonged to her.