The blood trickles down her arm.
It doesn't hurt anymore, it doesn't harm.
On the contrary, it brings peace
as the dark thoughts start to cease
and she becomes less alive.
But she was never made to survive.
No, she was made to self-destruct
under the label of disorderly conduct.
She doesn't deny the rumors.
She just laughs in good humor
because self-abasement is her default
and she agrees she's the problem; it's not their fault.
And far she falls,
only known to these four walls.
But they're not talking
and the door's locking,
hiding her from the outside
while she contemplates suicide.
But she would never do it!
No, she's too much of a coward to commit,
so she just cries,
dries her eyes and implies she's alive.
And tragically, they believe her act,
no question of fact.
So the blood trickles down her wrist,
and for a minute, she can pretend she doesn't exist.
And she smiles,
that real genuine smile you see every once in a while.
And that's where she left, in a pool of red, like the ocean after an attack from a shark.
That's where she left, no note, no explanation, just an eternal unsolvable question mark.
That's where she left when she lost her matches and that last little spark.
That's where she left when her mind got too fucking dark.
BINABASA MO ANG
The Things We Don't Talk About
Poetry***Trigger Warning: Mental health, mental illness, eating disorders, suicidal ideation, self-harm*** A collection of poems delving into the dark side of the human experience. From high highs to low lows, emotion can be intense. And this collection s...
