The first time that I painted that streak of vermilion red,
I was proud of what the mark that lay atop my forehead represented.
But maybe our understanding of that was not the same,
Maybe I really am the one to blame
For it's been two years and now my skin is adorned with scars,
One for each time your frustration decided I was the root of it all.
My body was the blank canvas I willingly presented to you,
But you only knew how to paint in black and blue.
And I don't know how long I can bear the sight of my own flesh.
I don't know how long it will be before you give this pain a rest.
When did I start seeing myself as this piece of filth?
When I did I start thinking love, happiness, life was a myth?
I'd become too tired of waiting for someone to get me out of this mess,
So I decided I'd do it all by myself.
My last thoughts are simply of how I find all this funny–
How the last time I was ever truly happy,
I painted that streak of vermilion red
And now, that I'm finally content,
I have once more painted streaks of red
Only this time, they adorn my wrists instead.
***
YOU ARE READING
wait,
PoetryWait, As the world you stand upon spins into the dark, the only light emitted by igniting a spark. Wait, And look at the chaos, the hate that fills, that fuels, that brims. The screams that hurt even the deaf, felt by all, even the daft. Wait, To...
