the blows are unexpected
they sneak in through a left open window
or bleed out from the contents of a song
leaving behind purple rising bruises
in places marked easy-to-hide
because this is the kind of pain meant to be kept solitary
like ghost ships full of forgotten treasure
that only i can see
after a five shot night of whiskey
or a twist tryst with someone who calls you by every name
but your own
as if my face casting shadows on your bedsheets
needs to be blurred out or painted over
made into some unrecognizable fantasy
that just cements all those grade school slurs
and the party invitations that missed my post box
every year
i grow so weary of these re-writes and character studies
ever the muse just thrown into a new set and form
by a different artist's hand
(or are you just a killer in a spray paint disguise)
after awhile someone else's lines turn into my own
and i lock the bathroom door behind me afterwards
watch black streaks of borrowed eyeliner slide down my skin
as i feel nothing but the cold tiles under my feet
ever searching the mirror reflection
to find who i am anymore
it is then the marks become visible
gashes that spell out every weakness and lie
and i think to myself
that there are not enough tears in one girl's lifetime
to make this ever okay
maybe you should have just forged my passport
and made me into someone from your what if stories
at least then i could read ahead and know how it was all
supposed to end
(written by me)
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