I look at the skin of my wrists
it is clear unbroken and whole
and it begs to be cherished and kissed
not be shackled with chains to the wall
to the wall that's inside of my mind
where I'm dwelling forever alone
with quiet voices of torturous kind
with my wrists raw and chafed to the bone
all the bones in my knuckles are white
like they easily could disappear
and they'd probably feel very light
without anger, frustration and fear
fear that's eating my insides alive
like bacteria cell after cell
wakes me screaming again before five
holds me prisoner under its spell
spell it writes on the skin of my wrists
on the inside where no one can see
with a razor and knife it makes lists
of the things it's been doing to me
the skin of my wrists
© Copyright: Марина Фордвэкс, 2018
Свидетельство о публикации №118122609597
Свидетельство о публикации №118122609597
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I wish that spell was gone for good!
I enjoy your poetry very much!
Миша Маденик 13.11.2023 20:54 • Заявить о нарушении
I enjoy your poetry very much!
Миша Маденик 13.11.2023 20:54 • Заявить о нарушении