a pointy bed of rusted nails
seems better than the pain of fake pride.
holes in my stomach and through my back,
deep and hollow like the wind,
pieces of me glide away into a void
that is called by a forbidden name.
black blood on my fingertips,
is it normal to be not ordinary?
the stinging ring from raw flesh,
the feeling of being torn apart
is no different than isolation
in between a three year period
of blank looks and annoyed scowls
all witnessed by a little middle schooler.
why do we feel at all?
the screams of nerves erupting
from pure and utter anger,
never does my heart listen
to my desperate pleas weeping
to shut everything off
like a simple, tired breath
on a candle's dying, blue fire.
the letters on my bruised tongue
is a book of cursed words
and the library in my head
is long destroyed by the force
of my sorrow soul
and yet a pointy bed of rusted nails
is better than anything at all.
-valkyrie
