a poem.
I need you to look at me.
And I mean to really at me.
Look through the windows
into my soul and see my pain.
It’s not something that can
be seen as pain—not really.
It's seeing the crumpled
papers on the floor,
it’s the half-written words overflowing
off the page and turning into the bullets
shot off from the sawed-off barrel that
are my lips—
They’re broken words—
words from someone who thought she
was going to be able to cling to a
Stranger and be happy.
But then they look at Me. And I
mean Really look at me.
They see the worthlessness and they
can see the broken pieces,
the Chips in my soul, the
gold of scars, and
they can see the flood of
rain filling the empty spaces
of my Psyche.
As you look through my windows,
I struggle to close to the curtains.
Don’t look at me, don’t stare at me.
The Cracks in my soul are self-inflicted
at Best. Yet, the gold of my scars is
the ever-permanent feature of my
Otherwise boring facet.
When you look, don’t just look at Me.
Look at my pain, and see the lightning strike
the middle of the parted sea. Pain comes
in different forms, in different ways, at
Different times. I stand teetering on the
edge of the table, not balancing but
preparing for the inevitability of
my Fall.
When I shatter do not pick up
my pieces. Instead grind them into
sand and spread them across the edge of
my ever-growing sea of instability.
Really look at me because the golden scars
that you see are simply the empty casings of
my bullets. Half written words broken,
now meaningless.
Look through to my soul and understand
that I am the crumpled papers on the floor.
That the half-written words are the only thing that recognizes my shriveled-up Pain.
Look at me and see not my golden scars,
but instead see my reflection of my
scarred Soul.
I will not cling to you, but I will
fade away like a shadow disappearing
into the light.
Understand and look at me.
