Who Cares?
After a while,
you just feel kind of numb.
Apathy becomes
your new favorite word.
You become an artist,
drawing in red ink
with a shiny silver pen.
Keeping things in,
and bleeding them out.
Living a complex lie:
it's just a scratch,
I'm fine,
I'll stop,
who cares?
On the inside you're dying--
I'm dying.
I'm my loneliest
when it's this time of night
and I reach over
and turn on the light.
So I can see
all this crimson mess
that I'll feel guilty about.
A minute later
I'm crying to the point
where I'm sick.
It stings the next morning
when you run hot water over it.
But not as harsh and biting
as compunction.
Sometimes I feel spoiled,
and selfish and wrong,
like a self-pitying fool
ruining what could have been
flawless skin.
Nobody knows all of me--
not what I've been through,
and the burdens I keep.
But they are minuscule compared
to the Lord's,
and I am ashamed.
Yet they seep through
in those thin lines.
It releases my fears,
just for a moment,
but when you feel it right then,
who cares?
