We hide our scars to keep from looking weak.
Quickly stuff them in our pockets when we hear our names called.
Keep them in the closet when going out.
The ability to bleed is a curse, and when love comes around,
We hide them in our purse.
We are the wounded.
The ones with damages; with caution tape around our mouth's.
We are the fragile.
Shattered bones lined within burned notebook pages and
Memories stained with bloodied scars.
The cuts and the bruises that we don't allow to be shown because we are too embarrassed
To admit that we bled.
Piles of regrets have been pushed under the rug,
We walk by them with our eyes swelling; but they never notice.
They never see this.
They can never see the light dimming from our smiles.
Never take the time to realize they are the ones that made us this way.
Words spilling from venomous teeth,
Gripping onto the tip of my tongue,
Hanging by poisonous thread.
Eyes that tell a million lies.
Crying in the middle of the night.
Awakened by dreams that have turned into nightmares.
Bare skin cut to the core.
The pieces remain cold on the floor.
I thought by now these bullet holes would close.
They cease to heal; refusing to remove the burning feel.
I can't cry because the salty tears would trickle down my face and
Leak into the bullet wounds.
I'll scream out names that I know will never be heard.
I will scream in pain until I find a cure.
This frame has been unsecured for many moons.
I lose the battle with myself every time I say that I am ok.
That this is just a phase.
These are just moments.
Temporary lack of strength.
The words linger within every inhale and exhale I take.
And with every dying heartbeat; my rib cage is beginning to break.
Creating a war in my bed; fighting battles in my head
Me against everything I believed in; I have yet to win.
But this is not about love.
This is about being unloved.
And this is not about heartbreak.
This is about broken souls, broken promises, and broken faith.
And this is not about you.
This is about me.
This is about the unforgettable and the unforgivable.
And this is not about hate.
This is about resent. This is about regret.
We are not victims. We are wounded.
We are the evidence that there are silent murders. Quiet assassins.
I will not blame. I will confess.
I am waiting for my bulletproof vest.
Waiting for the moment where I can walk these streets without taking bullets to my chest.
And I can, at last, put these tears to rest.