If These Hands Could Talk
By acidcrys
On a bed of shattered glass, I won't flinch, I won't even stutter a breath. Blind in the night's darkness, I won't close my eyes; your face haunts behind them. I can see the glistening, feel the dripping, taste the scarlet stained tears. Wiping them like sweat from my face, smearing the painting of injustice. Red traveling across the blacks and blues. Lies scattered upon deaf ears. Razors crawling down my throat, seeping into my gut. Trembling lips, and numbness all over. Blonde dripping with crimson die- Images etched into my soul. If I could talk, opening my chastised lips- the blood of my wounds would pour; words the flavor of steel, slithering down my chin.. but falling- falling only into the palm of my handIve reposted it. I figure I can handle it so long as I don't re-read the poem every time I get a comment. Its not talking about emotions.. its talking about a night when I was abused. I dont know why people cant understand that its not supposed to describe emotion.. its describing actions..events.. Written September 25th, 2001 © on Sep 25 2001 03:22 PM PST 18 • 0 • 10
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"On a bed of shattered glass,..."