The Cadaver Collection

Phony Marks

I do a lot of thinking

when I have to drive these roads.

I do my thinking best at night

but thanks to daytime now I know.

I had showed up to my friend's house

with peace offering in hand.

I gave her the Matcha latte

and she agreed to help me with my plan.

I had woken up that morning,

wishing for the knife.

It's been so long

and I've been aching

for some bloody proof that I'm alive.

My insides cramp.

My spirit leaves.

I'm nothing but a shell.

And you can watch my fingers freeze.

I cannot cry,

that's nothing new,

and now I can't make scars

because they say it's bad to do.

My love said that he'd leave me

if I turned to blades again.

So how do I match my shell up

with my true feelings?

I need them all to know

that I've been fighting hard.

And how will they see the battle

if I can't provide the scars?

I want them to all understand

how serious this is.

But no tears come

and no one sees

mascara streaming down my face.

So how will I go remedy

this problem that hurts so much?

I'll make adjustments,

not as good,

but maybe it's enough.

I cannot cry

so I want the stains

painted on my cheeks.

And I cannot open my own skin

so now it's just a canvas masterpiece.

She sits me down and takes her brush

and asks me what I want.

I sit up straighter,

match her gaze,

and beg her brush to beat me up.

It's not the same,

these phony marks.

They'll wash off all too soon.

I still crave real blood but

at least my outside,

for a second,

shows the battle too.