Blood

Pain as sharp as the knife in my hand.
Angry scars from the very same blade.
I cannot cry, but I can bleed.
No, I’m not crazy.

Angry wounds, they pour out blood,
New and fresh, red and deep.
Good. So good.
Every scar tells a story,
Red for each new hurt, white for each past pain.

Betrayal clouds my vision,
Everywhere I turn.
The blood still drips, slower now,
Raw and new the scar starts to form.
A few weeks time it will be white and old.
Yet the pain in my heart will be no less.
And that is when it starts again, scar on top of scar.
Lie on top of lie.

Blood stains my clothes and towels and sheets.
Leading to more lies, this time from me.
On and on the cycle goes, round and round.
Old scars painting my arms, they’re nothing but scar tissue now.
Do you hear me cry now? No, and you never will.