UnsympatheticAm I psychoticFor laughing awayAt the pain I see?Because your needFor my asisstanceIs able to wait?Is this all my faultSince I don't meanAny "sorry" I say?What am I to youAs I don't seemTo care 'anymore'?I've always caredAnd loved,I work for it everyday -Because the feelings areAnd simply never willBe existent.
The World Is A Trigger: Sandwich Slices Upon her skin, almost edging the inside of her left am, shortly behind the wrist, lies two scars of three marks. It took the cumulative 12-16 years of in-home slavery to cause it. All it was, was a simple instruction - heard for the hundredth+ time - of how to make her sandwich. Freshly from the knife block, silver flashed and found the girl's arm rather than sandwich. A purposeful swing & slide, unconsciously done, but almost made things better. The second was strategically placed, beginning light before a red droplet soon broke free. Her thoughts on the third one consisted of the determination to bleed years of pin over the food. But as blood shed onto a kitchen knife, it was the memory that returned normal senses. The reflection...
The World Is A Trigger: Social Works. It all began with a look outside the window. Perhaps they could have of told them that they had no daughter, or that she wasn't there... But where is there use in lying when all their names are in he system? Before there was a chance, they met her eyes. After adult-talk, the sheriff walked in. His words burned against the rim of her cranium, the way he directed her to clean her room... But truly, was that his worry? Or was it the way the black mold on the living room walls curled so delicately, as though purposefully designed. Perhaps he wanted her to start simple and keep her hidden in lies, despite the obvious truth that returned her glares. Then again, maybe it was due to the dog's papers, full of business, that the sheriff slipped on. Maybe, again, he wanted her to begin small. But what is so small when he questions her desire to live in this Hell? Had she known the world, had she known a true, "normal" household, perhaps the sense would have met her to beg them to sav
The World Is A Trigger: Concrete Floors How lovely were the days when Daddy shared a pillow, sleeping against his arm so that his daughter needn't awake with tears from the pain of her bed. Each night she lay, strewn across cold concrete. Her thoughts never knew better. The sun would set, and the living room's bare-carpeted floors would allow the moon's light to behold a mass that was a child cocooned within a blanket. For years it was this way, but for winter nights - annually, she received pajamas and a small blanket for the next year. Today, though, she resides in the warmth of her first bed. A gift she received as she entered the teens, at the age of thirteen. For months she suffered nightmares as she adjusted to this form of sleep. It took the completion of another year before she stopped asking her parents to rip up her carpet so that she may have a proper sleeping space.
She's Drifting [Again]People watchAnd know,As she slipsAway...But whose wordsWill step up,And save her day?
Cliches in DeathRoses are red,Sweet and moreLike the bloodDraining,Violets are blue,Shaded like iceLike the bloodNow cold.
Bloody SlapYour wordsCut deeperThan anyBlade ~SlitheringIn eachCreviceOf myPalms.
Overdose.Place your handOver my heart,Feel me -As you tell meHow you love me,Turn away -Feel my heart leap,Swallowing an overdose.
The LimitToss me in the fire,Drown me in boiling water -Bid adieu to my spirit,As it fades into the darkness;Flames stretch past the limit of hope,Water boils away the fantasies -Some goodbyes are best known to be last,Ending in the depths of a corner.