Angry shouts echo off of plaster walls,
Painting them sickening shades of despair.
She tries to block the noise out;
But nobody seems to care.
The words aren’t meant for her ears,
She is not the one who the barbs are meant to sting,
But with their searing heat and deadly edge,
Her wounded-animal soul begins to sing.
A song of loss,
A song of mourning.
A song of pain,
A song of scorning.
She can’t fight the pain.
It’s much too real.
She just needs something;
Something to heal.
To heal the pain
And heal the hurt
And to bury a hatchet in the fresh-tilled dirt.
A knife in her hands;
A heart in her throat.
A lighthouse blinking out;
She can’t stay afloat.
The pain feels good;
The wounds are what heal her.
The knife’s deadly call;
Its revelry reels her.
She finally feels something;
Something more than pain.
She’s finally gotten something;
Something she thought she would never gain.
She’s got healing,
And she’s got closure.
But her sins are dangerous;
She can’t risk exposure.
So she slips into silence,
Never uttering a word.
She’s too far gone;
The lines are blurred.
Her mind is a frosted glass,
Her mind is her playground.
Her wrist is a canvas;
Her soul has drowned.
A paintbrush is in her hands,
Gleaming in the secret moonlight.
She’s given up;
It feels so good to lose the fight.
Her skin is the stone;
Her knife is the chisel.
She feels so strong…
She feels so brittle.
Their voices are in her head;
She carries their hearts in her hand.
She is dry-eyed now;
It is only OR - no and.
The blade touches her skin;
Their screams reach her ears.
If actions speak louder than words,
How come nobody hears?