How do I put you into words
You ugly ugly thing
So ugly that there is nothing to be said of you
You there, lurking in the corner
Trying to twist yourself into a flower
Pretty for everyone else but me
Thorns sticking the places that can't be seen
Too many nerves in the mind hands
But why should it matter if they understood
What would you have them do upon seeing an eternal stream of blood
A never closing, festering wound
Scream in relatability?
Fall with you?
You never wanted that
But you wanted that
Should they applaud in a solemn manner?
At the very least reduce uncomfortable silence
Ah yes, the silence. Not the silence is all I ask.
A blinking stare because I'm speaking a language we're supposed to ignore
Or at least in public
God please, Satan please, everyone please
I beg of you
Listen? No.
Smile? No.
I suddenly remember why we're silent
No words. Dictionaries, thesauruses, pages untouched
No one looks for the words, and so there are none
Just ugly
Ugly ugly ugly
A shadow joining me at dawn and dusk
Things shaping me into ugly
Feelings slapping nerves into ugly
Metaphorical blood, because it's not ugly
I think we're waiting for someone to speak ugly on behalf of us
I would, but I haven't the words.
YOU ARE READING
The Book of Healing
PoetryShe's not okay, but writing it down helps. - Part I: It's time to rip off the band-aid. Poems: slam, traditional, free-verse. The first twenty are not up to par with the others, but this is an ongoing journey so I feel the need to include them...
